Forever Avenge: Awaken
by Kat-'No Quarter
Summary: There was nothing worse than being separated permanently from the one you love, nothing more agonizing than feeling that piece of your heart and soul being ripped savagely from within. Savagery; that was the only reason Khan was awakened from his frozen slumber, to once more become what his John wanted to save him from... [1st part of the Forever Avenge trilogy]
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello all!

IMPORTANT NOTE THAT REQUIRES IMMEDIATE NOTING BEFORE READING ON:  
This is not just a fanfic about the alternate reality of Star Trek, but I have also made several references to the previous appearances of the character Khan Noonien Singh, as seen before in The Original Series and Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. It is also an AU fic for Sherlock. That being said, there are a lot of differences time-wise in both universes-for instance, the Stardates are very different from the dates of the Eugenics Wars, Khan's re-awakening, etc. from TOS and TWOK. I did this on purpose simply to attempt to mesh the universes of Sherlock and Star Trek better, so you as readers...just bear with me, it'll all make sense, and pay attention to the Stardates. You'll be fine. :)  
Also, my fellow Trekkies: I /know/ it is the S.S. Botany Bay; there is a reason behind me re-naming it the U.S.S. Botany Bay, sooo once again, bear with me, darlings! 3

That is all-get reading! :D

all things from Star Trek: Into Darkness © Roberto Orci and J.J. Abrams  
all things from BBC Sherlock © Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat all things from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan © Jack B. Sowards and Nicholas Meyer  
all things pertaining to Star Trek: The Original Series and Star Trek in general © Gene Roddenberry all things from the original Sherlock Holmes story "The Adventure of the Empty House" © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

**Forever Avenge**

**Part One: Awaken**

_a Star Trek/Sherlock crossover_

I

[Stardate: 2258]

A foggy mind…that never happens to him; his eyes opened, fully awakening his brain cells as his pupils narrowed to the unwelcome sight of blindingly fluorescent light. Shapes and shadows were the only things his sight collected as he continued to lay as still as possible, knowing enough of the situation to know that he was currently in the process from emerging out of cryogenic sleep. Any sudden movements on his part during the reawakening of his circulatory, cardiovascular and nervous systems could result in permanent—and possible lethal—damage to his reviving body. As the remnants of sleep alleviated, though, he immediately began to deduce what he could from his surroundings, gathering as much information as he could whilst being forced by his semi-mortal flesh to remain still. There was not much he could see from his sedentary spot inside of what he quickly figured to be a cryo-tube, and he ran his eyes across an imprint into the metal of the inside that read dully: _U.S.S. Botany Bay_. Upon relocating his gaze outside of the tube, however, he concluded that wherever he was he most certainly was no longer onboard his vessel. A shadow of a man leaned over him, the light behind him shading over his features, preventing Khan from properly identifying him. He need not do so, though, for it was clear to see just by his stance and the shape of his shadowed form that he was not a man he was interested in, was not the one man who mattered in the slightest. Nonetheless, he finally sat up, pausing momentarily as a short wave of post-stasis dizziness struck him.

"Not so fast, you'll knock yourself out," the shadowed figure said, stepping out of the dark and holding out a hand to assist Khan out of the cryo-tube—a hand that he pointedly ignored as he got a better look at his surroundings. _Starfleet symbol on his shirt, probably a man of high ranking,_ he deduced rapidly in his mind._ Captain? No, far too old, he would have been promoted due to years of experience alone in the least. Admiral then. Nobody else seems to be around; I must have been in the reawakening process for several hours now at the least, for the medical professionals would not have left so early in the series. _He eyed an IV in his arm, the tubing accompanied by several bags and vials of liquid and a screen showing his vitals. _Sick bay of the ship. Obviously…however, we are not moving, nor does it feel like any of the engines are running at full power; therefore we must not be on any ship undocked from the Starfleet base…In fact, I must be in the base and not on a ship at all, or else the engines would have to be running simply to power the medical equipment beeping here to the right of the Admiral…_

"How do you feel?" the man asked, again urging Khan to speak with him. Khan did not say anything as he stared intently at screen across from him at his vitals, watching as his heart rate measurably sped up…_52 bpm…60bpm…68 bpm…69 bpm…72 bpm…75 bpm. _As soon as he saw that number, Khan felt satisfied that his cardiovascular system was independently safe; he ripped the IV out of his arm and calmly lifted himself out of the cryo-tube, walking briskly past the Admiral towards the nurse's station at the other side of the room.

"What have you done with the other cryo-tubes?" Khan asked as he pressed a thick square of gauze upon the punctured crook of his elbow. He could feel the man's disapproving glare upon his back as he spoke authoritatively:

"I think you need to take a seat first, you've just been pulled out of—"

"I know full well that I have just awakened from approximately one hundred Earth years of cryogenic sleep, Admiral, as well as I am aware of my own body's limits and am perfectly capable of pacing my systems accurately."

"I'm going to call the nurse—"

"A pointless threat to make, _obviously_; I do not require any filtrations or transfusions upon re-awakening for my body has already healed itself back to normalcy. I neither require nor want any further medical attention, Admiral. You know that I am not a normal human being—or rather, not human at all, for I am superior in every way—or else you would not have bothered to awaken me in the first place." Khan lifted the gauze off of his skin, observing that not only had the blood fully clotted already, but the entire wound was completely sealed up, as if the IV had never penetrated the skin.

"You require something of me—of my superior knowledge and intellect—or else you would have just left me and the _Botany Bay_ abandoned, even despite the fact that it was once a Starfleet vessel," he continued, tossing the soiled gauze into the trash and washing his hands. "You had no need to recover the ship since it is outdated technology and hardly necessary on base. It would not have been worth your time to recover and restore it. You only needed me.

"Which is why I must now inquire, Admiral," Khan said, turning to look the stern man in the eye. "What have you done with my ship and where is my crew?"

The man stood in silence, looking intently at Khan. He had expected the man to be highly eloquent in his speech, and he knew that it would be extremely difficult to keep any information from him. That being said, he did not expect to see such fire in the man's cold blue eyes. There was a lot of genuine concern lacing Khan's questioning, which was definitely something new and unsettling to have in mind whilst working with him.

"Impressive," the man decided to say first, holding his hands behind his back as he stood tall and militaristic before Khan, forcing an air of authority to permeate the room as a warning to the human augment. "You are right, of course, though I can't imagine how the Hell you knew I was an Admiral."

"I didn't," Khan said, a thin smile ghosting across his face. "You merely confirmed my assumptions."

The man raised an eyebrow but ignored Khan's piercingly analytical stare as he continued:

"I am Admiral Alexander Marcus, Section 31 of the American Starfleet Command, and I will be in charge of enlisting you into The Federation. I've brought you out of suspension in order to use your mind to our advantage, to _employ_ you, per se. I believe your savage intellect would be a prime asset in designing new and improved weaponry for Starfleet Federation vessels. That being said, I would rather escort you back to Starfleet command and get your orientation and paperwork in line before saying anymore upon the matter of your assignment or the fate your ship."

Khan said nothing as he watched the man stride across the room, passing right by him and punching six numbers into a keypad against the wall, opening the steel exit doors of the medical bay. He then turned and looked towards Khan.

"If you will follow me, I will take you to set up your secret identity within Starfleet."

Khan did not move from his spot, his mind whirring again, his thoughts now accompanied by frustration and rage. This mere human _dared_ to do this, to attempt to control him? Something was not right here…he had to know where his crew was, where _he_ was, and he had to know it now.

"…And if I should refuse?" he demanded of the Admiral, turning his head to see his reaction. The man's face remained stoically militaristic as he replied plainly:

"We can either do this diplomatically or by means of force."

"And if I should _refuse_?" Khan spoke louder, his teeth gritted as he firmly set his jaw, determined to get a straight answer out of the man one way or another. The Admiral's expression morphed into something resembling a smirk, though his eyes refused to smile with him.

"Then you can kiss your crew goodbye. All seventy-two of them."

_Kiss them goodbye…_Khan thought, a flint of horror impaling itself into his chest. He couldn't help but follow the latter thought with one of unparalleled morbidity: _What an ironic choice of words..._

"You wouldn't dare take the lives of seventy-two people," Khan pointed out with a knowing smirk feeding into his deep voice, feeding the Admiral a lie of false confidence. "Your weakness of sentiment wouldn't allow it."

"Ah, but you said it yourself, _Khan_," Admiral Marcus said, sneering Khan's name with great sarcasm. "You and your crew are not human, are you?"

"Where _are_ they?" Khan yelled, his voice hitching as his heart rate accelerated along with his temper. "What have you done with them? I demand to know, _now_!"

"You are in _no position_ to make demands, Khan," Admiral Marcus barked at the augment. "It doesn't matter where they are. What matters to you right at this very moment is the knowledge that they will be dispatched if you do not come with me and do as I say."

Khan stared him down, engaging in this silent power play for the sake of his crew, his family. There was no way he would abandon them, no way would he ever _think_ to abandon _him_. His heart lurched at the very thought. His mind grew foggy again—_second time in a single day, how annoying_—_but not unheard of. _It usually took a lot to fog up Khan's sharp mind. Even as an augment, he was superior amongst his own kind. There was no matching his intellect, which was already superior enough when he was a human, now made untouchable by great genetic engineering. If there was a way to rescue his crew and possibly even his ship, Khan would be the one who could come up with a plan. In order to acquire more information on this new Starfleet (the information he had locked away in the hard drive of his mind was sickeningly outdated due to the one hundred-plus years he spent asleep) and all who run it, he would unfortunately need to play the Admiral's game of war. In order to ever be able to get ahold of the rest of the cryo-tubes, Khan would have to join Starfleet and build them their pointless weaponry.

"Fine," Khan begrudgingly agreed. Admiral Marcus smiled in triumph, leading the way out of the medical bay.

"I see you've chosen the diplomatic route," the man said. "Good. This makes my job less messy, that's for sure."

Khan ignored his snide remarks, concentrating on the space before him, looking nowhere but straight ahead as he was lead out of the base and onto a transport ship back to Earth. As he looked out the window at the quickly disappearing space station, he thought about his crew—wherever they were—still locked up in sleep, their protection now a prison. He closed his eyes, fervently ignoring the quickly approaching planet that had turned on him and his partner long ago and made a silent promise to him and the other augments that he would free them soon, that he would figure out a way to do so quickly and efficiently so that he may no longer be separated from the one that mattered most—the only one that ever mattered.

_John_…

-•-• •-•-

It astounded Khan just how dubious everybody else at Starfleet was to the fact that Admiral Marcus was currently marching a complete stranger right into the heart of the Federation. Surely there should have been more security clearance codes for _both_ of them to abide by, officer and his guest, but apparently being of a higher-ranked authority gave one certain privileges to break laws however he so pleased. Khan could not help but scoff at the familiarity in the ridiculousness of the situation; was everyone on Earth just as predictable as they have always been?

Everything was white and chrome, the corridors the two of them passed through highly polished and pristine to the touch. The entirety of the futuristic navy would have been much more phenomenal to Khan's sight if it was not so predictable. Even the uniforms were to be expected, the primary colors utilized to differentiate between the categories of Starfleet officers far too sensible to be exciting. Khan found himself to be utterly bored to death by the time they finally entered the executive offices of the headquarters.

He was also quite bitter as he was forced to gaze upon the future, knowing that John would have been much more impressed and enamored by the sight than he was.

"You will be enacted into the operations division of Starfleet as a special weapons engineer," Marcus said, punching in the code to the large command room of the operations sector of HQ, "Where you will be enlisted as an English Starfleet commander and stationed back in London officially." They entered the large, dim-lit room to find that it was luckily empty. In the middle of the work day it was likely that some group or another would be occupying the space for various conferences. It was beginning to dim later into the evening, however; the work day was almost over, and HQ was winding down with the slowly setting California sun. Marcus had picked a rather strategic time in which to enter the false data of Khan into the computer.

He now booted up the computer, logging in as the database screen hovered across the conference table in a bright blue light, contrasting vibrantly against the dim of the room. Khan stood and watched as the Admiral pulled up what seemed to be a blank officer background log onto the holographic screen.

"You can sit if you'd like," Marcus said, motioning towards one of the chairs surrounding the table before turning back over to the keyboards to type in all of Khan's division information. Khan simply looked at him pointedly and remained standing.

"Now for a name," the Admiral, moving the cursor down over the text box in which Khan's false identity will be recorded into. "It should not be something crazy that will automatically attract attention to yourself, but at the same time you—"

"John," Khan spoke before Admiral Marcus finished speaking. He set his mouth in a deep frown as he momentarily let himself ponder the day's events so far, how he had been pulled unwillingly out of cryogenic sleep, how his crew was now being purposely kept from him. Khan hated the man standing before him—how could he feel any other emotion than just the one? After all, he asked Admiral Marcus to release John, but he took John away from him instead. He mulled over a list of fairly commonplace surnames in his mind before finishing: "John Harrison." Yes; for honoring his partner, Khan would take a fictional name as 'John Harrison,' a compliment for John Watson…his partner who's currently sleeping on while he must fight silently for his release.

Admiral Marcus eyed him carefully, and then slowly nodded. "That should do it," he agreed, typing in Khan's name and other false stats into the Starfleet interface. "Step over here and place your hands upon the scanner."

Khan silently obliged, patiently allowing the Admiral to record fingerprint, palm and retina scans for DNA referencing. He watched as his personal information began to appear one by one upon the holographic screen floating above their heads, little pinpoints of information zooming over to Marcus. He attended to each file one by one, typing in clearance codes to approve all of the new information being fed into the database with ease. Just like that, the fiction that is Commander John Harrison was suddenly a very important part of the Federation. Everyone else in Starfleet had to go through years of training, schooling, and service to achieve the level of power Khan had just now gained through a false alias and the simple punching of numbers into one computer. It was that easy to pull the wool over Starfleet's eyes.

Admiral Marcus punched one key of the board before him and brought up a classified file up into the air in front of them. He opened it, spreading the documents within about so as to show Khan the entire contents within.

"Six months ago, one of the Federation's greatest Class M ally planets, Vulcan, was destroyed by the Romulan Nero in his vessel, the _Narada_. The _Narada_ deployed a drill platform in the planet's atmosphere, and began drilling into the surface. A distress call from the planet resulted in the deployment of eight Federation starships to the planet, where all but the _USS Enterprise_ were destroyed by the _Narada_. Acting _Enterprise_ captain Spock was only able to rescue several members of the Vulcan Council before the planet was lost.

"We want to prevent this level of devastation from happening to the Federation again," Marcus said, swiping his hand across the screen to pull up another source file. "Which is why I've brought you out of cryo-sleep and enlisted you into Starfleet; I've begun seeking various ways to militarize Federation vessels and weaponry in order to better protect ourselves from attacks like the Romulan one. In particular, I've been eyeing the Klingon Empire, and I'm afraid that all-out war between them and the Federation may be inevitable. Nero destroyed 47 Klingon war birds at the Klingon prison planet before we were able to see him dispatched; due to this, tensions have grown exponentially in the past two years to the point that if either one of us or one of them were to put a single _toe_ out of line, shots would fly. We want to be the side with the bigger guns."

As Admiral Marcus side-stepped away from in front of the holographic screen, Khan stepped forward, taking over the controls momentarily as he sorted through the various beginning sketches of blueprints, official documents and digital data scripts, narrowing his eyes at the beginnings of what looked like a mega-battleship. There were multiple other blueprints similar to it, all of which focused mostly on advancing the typical Federation vessel's weaponry and engaging further precautionary details in the shields and protector forces. Already he was formulating ideas on how to improve upon the blueprints and on various ideas for improved guns and missiles. He smirked slightly, silently agreeing with the traitor standing to his right that this type of weapons engineering was right up his alley, that his savage intellect would be a prime advantage to designing only the best—and the _deadliest_—weapons for the Federation to use. Being placed in engineering would also give Khan the easiest access to many different ways of sabotaging Marcus' plans, of getting both his revenge and his crew set free. His official and personal prime directives had officially become perfectly clear to Khan, and he smirked slightly as he turned a 3D image of the beginning designs of a starship around above his head.

"So basically, Admiral, you want me to help you prepare for war," he said, casting a sideways glance at the man to view his reaction.

A dark smile slowly creeped across Admiral Alexander Marcus' face:

"…That's precisely what you will be doing, Commander Harrison."

-•-• •-•-

[Stardate 2015,4: London]

He didn't know why he would bother with reading the paper every day. News only upset him further, making him wish for things that could never happen, that would never be again, despite how many times he had cried for them, had prayed to see them happen again. But John Watson never failed to read with care the various problems which came before the public. He had even attempted, more than once, for his own private satisfaction, to employ Sherlock Holmes' methods in their solution, though with utterly indifferent success. He would never be a consulting detective like his former flatmate…But he knew deep down inside that Sherlock would never want him to lose his fascination for crime, a sport John had not even considered delving into until after meeting Sherlock and living with him. John mulled over his aloneness, rifling through the rest of the paper as he idly sipped at his coffee. The park bench he currently sat upon was half-cloaked in shade, though he preferred the sunlit spot to the darkness to better read the small newsprint. He tapped his right foot, wincing slightly at the dull pain that shot up his leg after doing so. His therapist warned him that his psychosomatic limp may return due to the amount of emotional stress he was going through in grieving for his friend, but John refused to ever use his cane again. Sherlock wouldn't want him to go back to the constraints of constantly limping about.

John sighed and folded his paper up. How was he supposed to know at all what Sherlock would want for him? He was considered the detective's best friend, but even John Watson could not foresee his suicide.

He was going to move back into 221B Baker Street today, back into his and Sherlock's old flat. He had moved out a month after Sherlock's death, when being around his ghost had finally become far too unbearable for him; but now Mrs. Hudson was inviting him back with open arms, saying how she simply could not bear to rent that flat out to anyone else. John knew she was especially lonely now without either him or Sherlock, so of course he obliged. Secretly he had missed the old place far more than he had expected to, and now after years of grieving John truly believed he would be able to look fondly upon all of the memories the flat brings back to him rather than straight up curse them as ghosts and flee like he had done before.

John tilted his head up to the sunlight, testing his memory skills on the front-page article he had read. _The average human memory on visual matters is only 62 percent accurate_, John recalled Sherlock telling him once when they were out on a case involving symbols written upon a wall in graffiti. Now as he tried to recall even the most minute detailing's from the murder littering the front page of the _London Times_, he found to his dismay that he could barely make out the man's name, much less the particulars of the crime which came out in the police investigation. He sighed heavily, wondering for the umpteenth time how Sherlock could even _consider_ suicide with a mind as brilliant as his was. As he closed his eyes he listened to the low hum of hover cars whizzing by above the streets where automobiles continued to drive past below the shadows of the new technology. Most of the public still stuck with their electric motor vehicles rather than upgrading all the way to the space-era technology simply because of cost efficiency; only the police, state-service vehicles and a handful of taxis made up the slowly expanding airways. All of London was expanding upwards, actually; buildings were getting higher and more chrome than ever before. John could barely make out either the Ferris wheel or Big Ben from the city's skyline, the two things that once dominated London's silhouette.

John Watson could barely recall the old London; the London he knew before going off to fight in Afghanistan; the London before the future hit; or the London before the United Federation of Planets would have ever been considered a thing. John was still on the side of the older generation, the people who thought such an intergalactic alliance would eventually be their planet's great undoing. After all, he was a soldier; he had seen far too many wars started in ways all too similar to this. By the looks of the United Nation's lack of decision-making on the subject, however, it did not look like the Federation would be enacted at any point during John's lifetime—and he was just fine with that.

At last the doctor stood from his park bench, tucking his newspaper underneath his arm and tossing his now-empty cup of coffee into the garbage can next to him, watching as the garbage was incinerated inside the metal bin on the spot in a flash of bright white, smokeless flame. As he turned away from the trashcan, he accidentally struck against an elderly, deformed man, who had been behind him, and knocked down several books which he was carrying. John immediately stooped down to pick them up, observing the title of one of them, _The Origin of Tree Worship_ as he did so, and it struck him that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile of some sort. Could be that, either as a trade or hobby, the man was a collector of obscure volumes. He endeavored to apologize profusely for the accident, but it was evident that those books which John had unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a snarl of contempt the old man turned upon his heel, and John saw his curved back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

"Good day to you too, then," John muttered to himself with a frown, retrieving his newspaper from the ground, wincing slightly when pressure was forced upon his leg. With one last glance in the disheveled old man's direction, John turned on his heel and began walking away from the park and towards his small, current place of living to go pack up his few belongings. From there, he would take them and himself back up to central London, back to Baker Street. As he walked, he mulled over the quick observations he had made over the stranger he just ran into and how he had spliced together meaningless bits of information to come up with the utterly unimportant fact that the man was a book collector. _Is this what my life has become now_? John asked himself as he unlocked the door to his meager one-roomed flat. _Will I forever attempt to copy Sherlock Holmes until the day I die_?

That actually did not sound like too horrible of a thing, reliving the memory of Sherlock until he got to see him face-to-face once more, beyond the grave. He stopped in the middle of his flat, staring down at his shoes as he recalled all the painful, lonely months he had sat in this room, contemplating ending it all. He could jump right after Sherlock; fall with him into the ground, into his own grave. They would probably even bury him next to Sherlock, what with the way everybody thought they were a couple. It would be just like old times, John right there by the detective's side where he belonged.

Even after he had finally accepted the fact that Sherlock was really gone, though, John could never bring himself to shove the damn gun into his mouth. He was a soldier, after all; he was made to keep on fighting, not to stand before the barrel of a gun and accept defeat.

He was back at Baker Street in no time, seeing as he had very few possessions to pack and that his new place of residence was not too far from his previous Central London abode. It was as simple as catching a cab (an automobile one, not a hovercar…flying made John a bit uneasy), reciting the address (since when did the words '221B Baker Street' leave such a warm feeling upon John's tongue? Had he really been gone for that long?), and driving off back into the home he once loved, with every hope of making it a home once more. Mrs. Hudson had called him earlier, informing him that she would not be in when he got there but that she would leave his key underneath the doormat for him. Sure enough, there was the little golden thing, shining beneath the mat; John set one of his two small moving boxes down and stooped over to pick it up, inserting it in the lock and easily kicking the door open enough for him to walk through it with his belongings. It only took one trip to take his handful of stuff back upstairs to his old bedroom (he could not bear the thought of taking over Sherlock's old room, not even after three years of it being left empty).

To his great astonishment, when John returned downstairs there was someone waiting for him in the living room. Upon further inspection, the doctor recognized the stranger to be his old book collector, with his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of white hair and his precious volumes—a dozen of them, at least—wedged under his right arm.

"You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange, croaking voice.

John stared at him and nodded once.

"Yeah, I'd say so," he said, a flint of a sarcastic edge evident in his tone. "How did you get in here?"

The man simply smiled and help up a hand as if in surrender.

"I mean you no harm, Doctor. It's just, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this flat, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, 'I'll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my books.'"

"Oh," John said. "Well, no harm done, it really is no big deal…" he narrowed his eyes ever-so-slightly at the man. "But may I ask how you knew who I was?"

"Well, sir, I am a neighbor of yours; I've a little bookshop at the corner of Siddons, and very happy to see you there sometime, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir."

He took the books tucked beneath his arm into his hands now, rifling through the volumes with a thoughtful look on his face.

"Here's _British Birds_, and _Catullus_, and _The Holy War_—a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on the second shelf. It looks a bit untidy, does it not, sir?"

"_Untidy_—?" John began but froze on the spot after he moved his head to look at the shelves behind the bookkeeper. He took a hesitant step, turning to look right towards the shelves, not believing what his eyes were seeing: Sherlock Holmes, standing and smiling at him from across the room. John blatantly stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, not fully grasping what he was seeing and frankly unsure if he believed it at all. _He was dead—you were dead,_ he thought in dubiety; _how can you possibly be standing here in front of me? _

Sherlock.

John swallowed hard; _he didn't die…he's back._

"Sherlock," John tried to acknowledge the man's presence, but ended up mouthing the name instead, failing to find his voice amidst the emotion-drawn constriction of his larynx.

"John," said the low, well-remembered voice. Sherlock looked upon him with a somber expression as he stepped away from the bookshelves towards his former flatmate. "I owe you a thousand apologies. I…I had no idea that you would be so affected."

"You're alive," John said, finally able to register slightly hoarse speech through the shock. Sherlock offered the man another small smile before glancing back at the bibliophile as he saw himself out of the flat. When he directed his attention back to John, he was met immediately by a fierce fist to the jaw, the sheer blow of the punch sending him staggering backwards and stumbling over the furniture behind him. His smile vanished as he re-steadied himself, looking at John with an expression that was a mixture of pain, hurt and remorse—no surprise at all, though. Sherlock had mentally prepared himself for practically any reaction John could give him upon seeing him.

"I deserved that," the detective muttered after a moment's pause, gingerly lifting a hand to his bruised chin. John gaped at him:

"Yeah? You deserve this one, too!" he said as he cocked his fist back and hurled it straight into Sherlock's nose, watching in fury as the body part exploded beneath his knuckles. John pulled his hand away—now splattered with the blood that was currently pouring from Sherlock's nasal cavity—and flexed it, wincing slightly at the ache from the blow. He heard Sherlock murmur stuffily, "_Yup…I shupposh I did_," as he quickly retreated to the kitchen to fetch a paper towel. The army doctor spared a glance up just in time to see Sherlock pass him by, bright crimson blood squeezing through the long fingers gingerly cupping his injury. He did not feel sorry yet, though; he was shaking in anger and hurt as he re-directed his gaze back down upon his still-aching hand. The sounds of Sherlock ripping a paper towel off of the roll, crumpling it up and pressing it against his nose were the only sounds that permeated for the moment, Sherlock trying to figure out what to say next while John refused to speak.

"…I never meant to hurt you, John," Sherlock finally spoke, sniffing painfully and looking wistfully back at his former flatmate. "I would have returned sooner if I could, but…well…" he glanced at the two armchairs in the living room, then back at the stoically silent John. "If you are done punching me, then we can discuss it; I will tell you everything—you of all people have the right to know. If not, that's fine, I understand…though I would suggest against hitting me anymore simply to spare your hand—"

"Three years, Sherlock."

John's voice was just as shaky at his stance was when he finally spoke; Sherlock saw this and sighed heavily before speaking softly in response: "I know, John."

Sherlock heard the man take a deep breath, watching him straighten his shoulders up as he turned to face where he stood in the doorway from the kitchen into the living room. His deep blue eyes were glistening ever so slightly, but Sherlock knew the man would not cry. Not that he did not want to, and not even that he would not do so soon; but he was trying to make a point here, purposely pushing the long-since dulled pain of watching his friend commit suicide—now fully rekindled, doubtless, due to said friend's return. His emotions were strong, even strong enough to impact Sherlock, for the sentiment-hating man could feel his throat clenching in sorrow for John's pain.

"Do you, though?" John said, clearing his throat upon hearing just how badly his voice was beginning to waver. "I mean, could you _possibly_ know how I felt, believing you were dead all that time."

"Yes," Sherlock said, and then winced internally, immediately knowing that was the utmost incorrect thing to say in response. John shook his head, his eyes now downcast as he struggled to remain in control of his emotions.

"No, Sherlock; you can't," he stated firmly. "You can't possibly know anything about that, about how I…"

_But I can,_ Sherlock thought to himself, eyes examining every inch of John's form. _Dark, obvious bags beneath the eyes, cheeks slightly sunken in, usually firm militaristic stance drooping ever-so-slighty—he's fatigued, probably has not had a decent night's sleep in far too long. Hasn't done much shopping as of late, either—that shirt's an old one, and is now nearly two sizes too large. He hasn't been eating again—dropped at least fifteen to seventeen pounds in the past year, probably a bit more in the full three. Skin's a shade more pallid than I remember as well, which means he goes out far less than he used to, only when necessary or when his therapist commands him to. Trembling—cold?—no, heightened anxiety. Deepened frown lines around the lips and upper eyebrow areas…along with more pronounce dimples around the eyes…which are swollen ever so slightly—not just from the infrequent nightmares—war? Highly unlikely—and lack of sleep, but due to the fact that he's holding back tears as hard as he can right now…so yes, John. Yes I can know just what my actions have done to you…maybe not _emotionally, _but I can see clear as day the physical ramifications of your loss. _

John sighed unnervingly, briefly burying his face in his hands. Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together, patiently waiting for the man to regain control.

"You don't know this, Sherlock," John said, removing his hands from his face and looking back at the detective, "But you saved my life the day you invited me to get a flat share with you…" He paused here, gulping unpleasantly before admitting:

"I was planning on shooting myself in the mouth as soon as I got home that day. Meeting you, though…it gave me the slightest bit of hope that maybe—just _maybe_—I really could turn it all around, could make my life have meaning again."

"John…" Sherlock began, but the doctor raised a hand to hush him.

"I almost went through with that previous plan a month after the fall, _your _fall," John confessed, his voice barely at a whisper as he shook his head slightly; he tilted his head back up before finishing his speech, though, making sure to meet Sherlock's eyes as he said:

"But I stopped myself, because I knew you wouldn't want me to do it, to follow you…for once."

John sniffed again and kept his pain-filled eyes firmly locked with Sherlock's for as long as he could stand it. After about three minutes of cold, thick silence he finally turned his head away.

"So…there," he muttered with a sigh. "Don't tell me you know anything about how I feel, Sherlock. You weren't the one left behind."

In that moment, as he looked upon the downright _tortured_ look upon his best friend's face, Sherlock knew what he had done all those years ago was the biggest mistake of his life. It would be better, he knew, once he explained himself to John, told him about the threat from Moriarty upon his life, but the pain would remain, and it would take far longer than he anticipated for John to heal completely. He honestly had no idea that John would become suicidal; sure, the man would hurt, but to take his life away? Was he really that desperate, that attached to someone so frankly _unattached_ to…well, everything? Sherlock silently cursed himself for his cluelessness over John's level of caring, over how he had broken him after being the one person who managed to bring him back to life the day they met, when they were still strangers. He began to take a step towards John but stopped himself; what more could he do or say in this situation? The words 'I'm sorry' hardly seemed adequate after the confession he had just listened to. Sherlock could not tell just how much longer John's control would last. The man could break down any second now, leaving Sherlock even more powerless and speechless in the process, with that ridiculous bloody napkin still pressed to his throbbing face.

John saw Sherlock move out of the corner of his eye, though, saw him hesitate to approach him. Of course, neither of them knew what to do now, after as dark of an admittance as the one the two of them bore witness to. John merely stared at the wall, idly focusing as much of his weight upon his left leg as possible when his right leg's ache suddenly decided to make an appearance at the already painful enough scene. At last the barrier was beginning to break; a single, glistening tear slid down John's cheek, slightly sunken in due to the lack of will to eat properly for the past three years. He blatantly tried to ignore the fiendish saline water's presence, tried his hardest to stand firm…and failed miserably. With a final, fervent shake of his head he turned on his heel and walked straight into Sherlock, throwing his arms around him with fervor. Sherlock dropped his napkin in surprise, and then slowly wrapped John up closer to him, pressing his lips together firmly as he held onto his crying friend. John's tears were not loud in the slightest but they were uncontrollable, the silent sobs almost worse in their cold, solemn nature than a noisier display would have been. Sherlock shut his eyes when the display of silent sadness distinctly reminded him of the day he had followed John to the cemetery, the one time John could stand to visit his friend's unknowingly empty grave. Sherlock could practically feel the torment radiating out of John's gentle tremor, and he pulled him tighter, trying his best to be a comfort when he honestly had no idea how to stop the torture he had inadvertently started.

John pressed his tear-stained face into Sherlock's shoulder, murmuring fervently against the detective in a biting tone obviously meant to come across as a warning: "_If you ever leave me again, I'll end you_."

Sherlock couldn't help it; he smiled at John's merciless words, knowing at once that he was slowly but surely beginning to be forgiven, that John was going to be okay. The detective nodded, accidentally brushing his cheek against John's face in the process:

"Okay, John."

-•-• •-•-


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Yeah, I know my Reichenbach solution is not accurate, but do cut me some slack-this was written before Series 3 premiered, believe it or not! :) Enjoy!

Forever Avenge

_a Star Trek/Sherlock crossover_

II

[Stardate 2015,4: London]

"You ready yet?"

"Almost, give me a moment to get as much blood out as possible."

"I don't hear you blowing your nose, Sherlock."

"Shut up—it hurts, alright?"

"And it's gonna hurt worse in a moment, so suck it up!"

"Fine…"

"Ready?"

"Yes…"

"Okay, come here and pull your chair as close to mine as possible, facing me."

"Alright. Do you really have to do this now while it's still bleeding, though?"

"Yes, Sherlock; you know if you don't set your nose within a certain amount of time after breaking it that it won't heal correctly!"

"You're lucky you're a doctor, or else—"

"Or else _what_?"

"Nothing. Ok, do your worst."

"Where's that paper towel; you've made it bleed again…"

"And you're going to make it bleed even more in a moment—just get it over with already!"

"Alright, fine! Just hold still, dammit."

"…OW."

"Stop that—hold on, I haven't even _done_ anything yet!"

"You touched it!"

"No shite, I'm going to have to do a whole lot of that in order to set the bloody thing!"

"…"

"Hold. _Still_."

"I am!"

"Are not. I'm serious, Sherlock, I'll be able to work faster if you just cooperate."

"_Fine_."

John took a steadying breath and replaced his hands upon Sherlock's injured face, pressing his fingertips at the top ridge of the detective's nose and slowly beginning to press firmly down upon the traumatized cartilage. Pressing his lips together, he focused on making an invisible straight line down the center of Sherlock's face, imagining just where to set the fractured bones; Sherlock groaned in pain as the doctor pressed his palms against him and brought the bottom of his hands together underneath the nose.

"Stop whining," John saw fit to chastise him, feeling the pieces of the fracture move into place beneath his fingertips. He nodded once to himself, pulling his palms down the side of the nose, adding firm pressure and moving in a straight line as he did so. He felt Sherlock clench and unclench his teeth in frustration at the harsh movements across his injury but he remained silent in order to allow John the utmost concentration at his work. He couldn't help but think that John was probably secretly enjoying torturing him so, though, after all the torture he had brought upon the doctor. John frowned slightly and repeated the process, adding a bit more pressure the second time around in order to make doubly sure that the bone was properly forced back into its correct position; he chanced a look up into Sherlock's agonized blue eyes, examining the pupils to make sure the man was not at risk for passing out due to the pain.

"You alright," John asked in honest concern as he lifted his palms from Sherlock's face. The detective scoffed.

"What do you care?"

"I'm asking, because if you faint I won't be able to finish setting your nose until you regain consciousness," John explained. "And by that time I'll probably have to re-break the damn thing to get it back in the right place."

"I'm fine," Sherlock stated in firm indigence, to which John nodded and re-directed his attention back to the man's injury.

"Hold still," the doctor reminded Sherlock as he leaned over to look up the man's nose, inserting two fingers into the swollen nostrils with great precision.

"Ah, _Hell_—" Sherlock cursed, pulling away from John as he winced turbulently in pain.

"For god's sake, Sherlock," John said, grasping the man's shirt and pulling him back in front of him. "I've got to align the nose from the inside, too!"

"You keep your fingers out of my nose!"

"How the Hell do you suppose I _fix it_, then, Sherlock? I washed my hands, it's not like they're dirty; just let me hurry up and finish here so you can tell me why you jumped."

Sherlock opened his mouth to spat a sassy retort back at John but stopped abruptly after hearing the second part of John's sentence. He paused, then looked the man in the eye and nodded reluctantly. "Be gentle," he growled gruffly as he re-settled himself back in his chair, bracing himself for the next shot of pain to his nose. John nodded once, took a deep breath to re-focus himself, and then re-inserted his index fingers into Sherlock's nostrils. He ignored the man's hiss of discomfort as he felt around the cavity—which was grossly distended by the injury, making twice as sensitive of an area as before, much to Sherlock's dismay. To his credit, though, he managed to keep completely still by clenching his teeth together roughly; John didn't have the heart to tell him that adding pressure to his jaw would only further aggrieve the swollen area, too grateful for the silence to disband it so soon. At last he felt the fracture click back into place beneath his fingers and he was able to release a bit of the pressure.

"Blow your nose," John instructed Sherlock, his fingers still up the man's nose. Sherlock simply stared at him.

"_What_?" he said stuffily.

"Blow your nose while I pull my fingers out," John said. "It will help drain blood and pus from the nose, trust me."

Sherlock looked at the doctor peculiarly but nonetheless obeyed, blowing out from his nostrils as John extracted his now-bloody fingers from within the detective's nasal cavity. He watched as the man calmly wiped his hands off with a paper towel, and then held the napkin gently up against Sherlock's nose. "Blow," he ordered, "careful now, but try to get everything out." Sherlock obeyed, feeling a bit foolish but making a point not to complain anymore despite how much worse his injury hurt now that John had thoroughly messed with it.

"Alright," John said, pulling the blood, pus and mucus-filled paper towel away. "You stay there—and don't you dare move or touch your nose. I'll be right back."

Sherlock did not respond and resisted the urge to make a sarcastic face at John's back as he rose from his chair and retreated into the kitchen, where he tossed the used napkin and re-washed his hands. He watched the doctor turn on his heel and head for the bathroom next, and then was greeted with his return not a moment later. In John's hands was some crumpled tissue paper; as he sat back down in front of Sherlock he tore off a piece and crushed it into a crinkled ball shape in his hand before carefully wedging some into one nostril of Sherlock's, repeating the process for the other. Once the tissue was in place, John extracted a small band aid from his pocket and stuck it across the bridge of Sherlock's nose.

"It'd be better if I had a clamp for it," John muttered beneath his breath, leaning away from Sherlock's face to examine his work. "…But I suppose that'll have to do."

The doctor rose again and went back into the kitchen, grabbing a towel and a handful of ice this time before returning to the living room.

"You'll have to keep this on it for at least twenty minutes now, alright?" John said, handing the make-shift ice pack to Sherlock to place upon his nose. Sherlock glowered at it for a moment before carefully putting it against the injury.

"…ow."

"Oh, stop complaining," John said. "And take your chair back to the other side of the room, will you?"

"You seem to be reciprocating from your previous rage rather well," Sherlock commented as he pushed his chair back to its proper place opposite from John's. John sat back down with a slight huff, watching Sherlock lift his ice pack up from the arm of his chair and slump down into it with the chilled towel placed upon his nose.

"I'm controlling it," John said with a slight frown. "There's a difference." He sighed, relaxing a bit further into his chair and looking briefly away from Sherlock; he smirked a bit.

"Besides, I've already broken your nose. Don't want to do any worse damage than that until I hear what you have to say," John pointed out. Sherlock looked at him with a calculating expression.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock spoke. "But are you certain that you are really fit to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance, no denying that. Also, in the matter of these explanations, we have—that is, if you'll assist me as you always have—a hard and dangerous night's work in front of us."

"No, I'm not denying it," John said, looking back at the man. "But I'm alright, and damn the work for just one moment, alright? I need to know now."

_I need to know before you turn out really just to be the PTSD talking…I need to know that I'm not actually alone, Sherlock._

Sherlock met his eyes.

"So you'll come with me tonight?"

"Of course."

"Good," Sherlock said, pressing his lips together and averting his eyes for a moment. "That's good," he repeated, then looked back at John. "Well then, since I know you're wondering mostly about how I survived the fall, it would help that you knew I never hit the ground in the first place. What you saw was all an illusion—a trick."

"You never hit the ground?" John clarified, knitting his brow together in confusion.

"No, of course not," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "I had Molly help prepare my corpse, you see. We had met previously—I knew that my death was inevitable immediately after leaving Kitty Riley's flat—and discussed a plan of action. She helped immensely in the dressing up and setting out of a cadaver for the funeral; without her help this would have never worked according to plan. After we had a fake body for later, the only matter was to make sure I hid myself properly after falling off of Bart's and—"

"Hold on," John said, an incredulous look upon his face. "Molly knew you were alive?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with a slightly confused look upon his face. "I just said so…"

"And she didn't tell _me_?"

Sherlock observed the look of hurt that John wore and sighed exasperatedly.

"Obviously I had told her not to say anything," Sherlock explained, holding up his hand before John could protest. "She didn't want to, of course, but I told her it was imperative that she followed my instructions should you be in further danger."

"…Oh," John said softly. "You were trying to protect me."

"That was the whole point behind the suicide, yes," Sherlock said, folding his hands together thoughtfully. "Surely you heard the recording of mine and Moriarty's conversation from the rooftop on my phone."

"I didn't listen to it," John told him, "But Lestrade showed me the police report, which had the full script from the conversation on it."

"So you know about the snipers."

"Yes."

"Good, that saves time, now I don't have to waste my breath explaining my motives."

John stared at Sherlock, his frown deepening as he thought of a million things he could retort with but deciding that his silence would be the best. After all, nothing in the world would make Sherlock Holmes a sentimental man; not even John believed he could make the detective truly see the emotional ramifications for his actions, but he could not help but forgive him nonetheless. It would not be the same Sherlock if he had returned crying and kneeling before John.

"Now, John, I need you to think back to that day in order for you to fully understand," Sherlock began again, glancing across at his flatmate. "Remember how I vehemently ordered you to stand at a very specific spot while I spoke to you from the roof of Bart's? I needed you to have the perfect perspective and vantage point for me to pull off the illusion of falling to the ground, and the position that you stood at blocked your view from two areas: from behind the building and behind the sidewalk before me. I needed you in that spot so that you would not be able to see the truck."

"The truck?" John asked. "What truck; there was no truck."

"Exactly," Sherlock said, pointing his finger at the man. "You didn't know it existed at all because you could not _see_ it. That's why you needed to be behind that smaller brick building. I landed in the bed of the truck, which was packed with proper materials to cushion my fall."

"You couldn't have landed in a truck without me knowing, though, Sherlock," John argued, "Because I saw you hit the ground. I _saw_ you!"

"But did you really?" Sherlock inquired. "Think, John, _think_; did you really see me specifically make contact with the concrete below or are you simply recalling the image of me already lying in a pool of my own blood?"

John met Sherlock's eyes before closing his, remembering the day of Sherlock's fake suicide with all too much clarity. He remembered the sheer horror he felt clenching around his heart when he saw Sherlock toss his phone to the side. He could see Sherlock's arms outstretched, could remember his silent "no" ghost across his lips as he was forced to watch the detective lean forward. He remembered the next bit in slow-motion, just as he had seen it when it had happened. He could see the very moment Sherlock's shoes left the rooftop; remember the way his scarf billowed behind his body as he free-falled to his death. He re-watched it all in his mind, the fall, but sure enough when he tried to remember the moment Sherlock's body made contact with the damp, unfeeling ground beneath him, all he could see was a black expanse blocking his view. He replayed that bit in his mind over and over, but sure enough, Sherlock was correct; his view of the final seconds of Sherlock's fall were completely blocked out by the brick building standing between him and Bart's.

"So the truck was behind the building where I couldn't see it, then," John said, opening his eyes immediately to look back at Sherlock. He exhaled with relief; just replaying the suicide in his mind made him second-guess himself once again for a moment, but once he saw that Sherlock was still there, obviously alive and still with the towel pressed up against his recently sustained injury, John could see clearly again, could breathe once more.

"Okay…" John said, beginning to come to grips with the idea of a truck hiding there away from his sight. "But what about the body I ran up to? That was definitely you, Sherlock, I'd have been able to tell—"

"Of course it was me," Sherlock said. "Obviously I rolled out of the truck and onto the ground before you got over there."

"How did I not see that?"

"The cyclist."

"Oh…"

John recalled his painful run-in with the random biker in the street that day and frowned. How could he have been so careless? Unless…

"…Homeless network. You hired him to knock me down, didn't you?"

"Yes, very good," Sherlock said with a slight nod. "It was a member of the homeless network that assisted Molly and I with the truck as well."

"Brilliant," John said bitterly, to which the corner of Sherlock's mouth flitted upwards just a tad in amusement.

"Immediately upon landing safely in the truck," Sherlock continued to explain, "I ripped open a bag of blood and poured some of it upon my head and the rest on the ground. I had Molly extract a pint beforehand should someone order a DNA test on the blood—which, admittedly, would have been highly unlikely given the fact that Molly herself did the 'autopsy' upon my 'body.' The rest from then all out consisted of her and Mycroft later helping me fake the funeral and what-not."

"But I checked your pulse," John pointed out. "There was nothing there; how'd you pull that off?"

"Ever heard of the rubber ball trick?" Sherlock asked, extracting a small black ball from deep within his coat pockets and tossing it idly to John. "There is a classic magic trick that involves squeezing a ball under your armpit to cut off circulation to your arm and make it seem like you have no heartbeat. I used that to fake the loss of a pulse to you, knowing you would induce your authority as a doctor and make to double-check my heart had stopped somehow in the chaos of the fake paramedic's handlings."

"You really thought this through," John said, honestly impressed despite the deceit. "I mean…you had all of, what, an hour and a half, maybe two hours to put this together while we were separated. You really put a lot of thought into this."

"I knew it was coming," Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose as he inadvertedly quoted Moriarty: "The fall."

"What were you doing while you were gone, Sherlock?" John asked, breaking the detective's remorseful train of thought.

"Moriarty's web was immense," Sherlock informed his flatmate while readjusting his makeshift ice pack upon his sensitive face. "I was not about to leave this case unfinished, and seeing to it that most every criminal part of that web thought I was dead gave me an imperative advantage. With the assistance of Mycroft I was able to see to it that the world's only consulting criminal's web was successfully and permanently shattered."

"Mycroft knew you were alive," John breathed in disappointment; "Never thought I'd live to see the day that you willingly went to him for help."

"I did not do so at first," Sherlock said with an exasperated sigh. "It was after I realized many of Moriarty's main accomplices were not just located out of the country but outside of Europe as well that I knew I would need the assistance of a slightly international power such as him. He was able to pull more strings than I could have ever imagined to get me into face-to-face meetings with the most inconspicuous of criminals worldwide that had somehow wrapped themselves up into Moriarty's system…it was all very tedious," he finally admitted, looking at John with an honest expression. "I just wanted to get it all taken care of as quickly as possible so as to return to you in a timely fashion."

"Three years is timely?" John said in disbelief. Sherlock shook his head.

"No," he huffed. "It is not in the slightest. I took about a year and a half longer than I'd wanted to."

"I wish you could've told me from the start," John admitted, his expression faltering again with a sigh. "But I see now why you couldn't, I suppose..."

He looked up from his lap, eyeing Sherlock seriously. "Promise me something, though, will you?" he asked, to which Sherlock gave him his full, undivided attention. "Promise me that next time, you will include me. Next time we'll come up with a plan together, alright? I know I'm by no stretch of the imagination a mad genius like you, but even you have to admit I _can_ be helpful."

Sherlock nodded once—a nearly imperceptible nod, mind, but John saw it nonetheless just before he finished:

"Let me be a proper best friend and help you from now on, Sherlock. Don't…don't cut me out anymore."

Sherlock had to pause before responding to John's request. He knew there were instances, sometimes, in which he _had_ to keep John out of it in order to protect him—the Reichenbach Fall being a fantastic example of that exact kind of instance—but he saw now that John's wishes should be respected. He was a soldier; after all, he was made for battlefields, not to be abandoned. Out of sheer respect for their friendship and companionship, Sherlock silently agreed to John's terms, nodding firmly across the room at the army doctor and watching with intrigue as his simple head movement made John visibly relax in relief. The betrayal was what got to him the most, Sherlock realized, and he silently vowed once again to do everything in his power never to hurt John in this way ever again.

"Work is the best antidote to sorrow, John," Sherlock said softly, effectively ending their previous conversation of the past to bring both of the back into the present.

"Right then," John said with finality. "This case you've got; what is it and what are we doing tonight? You've got to brief me on things before throwing me into the crossfire."

Sherlock smirked at John's militaristic reference, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair as he automatically prattled off all the information he had about his newest case to John. Much to his surprise, John realized soon on that Sherlock's new case was the very murder he had read about in the paper that morning, the murder of one Ron Adair. John was suddenly able to recall everything he had read from the paper's report that morning, recounting the few facts and figures he had picked up upon to the consulting detective before him, who nodded in approval as he spoke. The authorities, not to mention the man's family, were perplexed by the case; it seemed that Adair had not an enemy in the world. According to the police report, he was in his sitting room, with a window open, working on accounts of some kind, as indicated by the papers and money found by police. Adair liked playing whist and regularly did so at several clubs, but never for great sums of money. It does, however, come out that he won as much as £420 in partnership with a Colonel Moran.

"They didn't say much in the paper about whom this former Colonel Moran was, though," John explained to Sherlock, who sure enough was able to spout out far more facts and figures about the mysterious man to his flatmate, who sat listening inquisitively as he spoke:

"Moran was educated at Eton College and the University of Oxford before embarking upon a military career. Formerly of the 1st Bangalore Pioneers, he served in the Jowaki Expedition and in the Second Anglo-Afghan War, as well as many other well-known militaristic pursuits before retiring to serve under Moriarty's criminal empire for a time. Unfortunately he was the only piece of the web that I had failed to destroy," Sherlock admitted with a deep frown. "In fact, you may want to bring your gun tonight in case I miss my shot. Doubtless there will be a threat against my life during our visit with Moran."

"Wait," John said, holding his hand up to stop the detective from continuing on for a moment. "_That's_ where we're headed? To face this Sebastian Moran bloke?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "Isn't it clear—?"

"You know it isn't," John said in exasperation before Sherlock could continue:

"Now left without employment, Moran earns a living here in London by playing cards at several clubs—a hobby he shared with Ronald Adair. Moran murdered Adair by shooting him with a silenced air gun that did not use bullets for."

"A gun that doesn't use bullets?" John asked skeptically, to which Sherlock surprised him with his response.

"Have you ever seen the movie _No Country For Old Men_?"

"…The western?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with an eye roll. "Of course you've seen it. I personally haven't, but I know that the antagonist in that film utilized the same kind of weapon that Moran used on Adair, if you can visualize that correctly."

"I can," John agreed, thinking.

"With that weapon's particular intensity of air pressure, it would have been easy for as good of a shot as Moran to aim correctly through the open window in Adair's room and make a direct hit on him."

John stared at Sherlock.

"How long have you been working on this case?"

"Since this morning," Sherlock replied. "Why?"

"That's how long I've been working on it as well," John retorted. Sherlock shrugged.

"You had numerous distractions, whereas the only distraction I encountered was our meeting, and I had already gathered up all of this information by the time I met with you here."

"That and you're you," John muttered, to which Sherlock knew better than to reply despite how much he truly wanted to. After all, he had just barely escaped John's wrath; his nose was still throbbing enough to remind him to keep his mouth shut for the time being. He now glanced at the clock, noting that it was now late afternoon and that a little more than twenty minutes had passed, allowing him to remove the melted ice pack from his face and dispose of it into the kitchen sink. John stayed where he was seated as Sherlock went to examine his nose for himself, thinking over the day's events so far and over the facts that had just been rapidly spewed out at him.

"Fair enough," Sherlock could not help but agree arrogantly, walking back from the bathroom and stopping behind John's chair. "Are you ready to get going?" he inquired, gripping at the back of the cushioned seat. "We have time to stop somewhere to eat first, if you're hungry…?"

"Starving," John agreed, rising from his seat and grabbing his jacket as he followed his flatmate's long strides straight out the door and into the brisk air, unable to hold back a secretly delighted smile at how quickly everything was beginning to return to its former normalcy.

-•-• •-•-

[Stardate 2258: space coordinates ]

"We'll begin work on the _Vengeance _here, as soon as you complete those blueprints I gave you—"Admiral Marcus began to explain to Khan in the midst of their tour of the secretly subsidized Io Facility, a spacedock in orbit of the Jovian moon Io. He was interrupted with surprise when Khan simply handed over a microchip, walking straight past Marcus and stopping to look across the balcony they stood upon, observing the spacial measurements of the garage the _U.S.S. Vengeance _would eventually be built within.

"I re-drew the entire design of the ship," Khan explained. "With the improvements I wanted to make in the thruster design your previous bow shape simply would not do. It now further resembles the _Enterprise_ more so than the _Oberth_ while still maintaining the optimal measurements of speed and precision during and out of warp."

The Admiral fixed Khan's back with a speculative glare, pulling out his tablet and transmitting the files from the chip into the tablet's system. As he pulled up the newly re-written blueprints, Khan pointed across the empty expanse before him.

"This will have to be further expanded to accommodate the new hull size, of course."

"No can do, resize the hull," Marcus said, to which Khan merely glanced over his shoulder in distaste before stating:

"You asked me to design the best ship I could for your Federation, _Admiral,_ and I did just that." He turned back to face the interior of the station. "If you choose to be idiotic to suit your station's current state rather than adjust to the magnificence of my ship, so be it—but _you_ will be redesigning the hull, then, not I."

Khan was met with a long expanse of silence, an experience most welcome after having to endure the Admiral's tiresome instructions and explanations upon how travel to and from the hidden space station would be performed and when building of the _Vengeance _will commence. The ship itself was going to be magnificent; specifically designed to be a combat vessel, it was going to be larger, faster, and more heavily armed with advanced weaponry than the _Enterprise_ and all other ships in its category. Despite its enormity and vexation of an engine manual, the _Vengeance _also would not require even half of the crew the _Enterprise_ or the _Oberth_ required, making it a much more economically stable of a starship to man for the Federation…_Class: Dreadnought; Hull Type: Warship; Registry: Unmarked/Officially Nonexistent; Affiliation: United Federation of Planets; Operator: Federation Starfleet (Section 31); Top Speed: presumably Warp Factor 12 (pre-TNG warp scale)_…Khan took many liberties in putting his own personal taste and preferences into it as well, capabilities including, but possibly not limited to, advanced warp technology, next-generation sensor technology including "multi-dimensional RADAR" and "space region observer" systems, upgraded (potentially M5-level) automation of all primary systems and anti-transwarp beaming countermeasures, hull armor including extending plates to cover the navigational deflector and a "sunken" main bridge configuration, making it all the more suitable for a war machine in doing so. He was not going to alter a thing about the blueprints, no matter how much the Admiral argued over the matter. After all, the man wanted the perfect war vessel, and perfection is all that Khan presented him with.

"Impossible," he heard Marcus mutter. Khan looked up from the loading dock below him, glancing at the expanded holographic projection of his masterful blueprints reflected across the metallic dock before him.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, __however improbable__,_ _must be the truth…_

"What is 'impossible,'" he inquired dully of the Admiral, watching the man examine through the organized hologram without having to turn around and face the tiresome man thanks to the reflective metals of the Io Facility.

"'_Can be operated by one individual if necessary_?' Impossible!" Marcus said, tapping once upon the blueprint to zoom into the description of the hull design. "With a bay this large in diameter, the engine thrusters must be at least doubling that size and capacity. This vessel couldn't possibly go into a successful warp without at least eighteen men manning the engine room at all times, it would fry!"

"The engine controls are in the bay, as you have decidedly missed in your hasty reading," Khan informed the Admiral. "Though it has a crew compliment of approximately 230 officers & enlisted ratings, in the instance of an emergency in which all but one knowledgeable crew member is temporarily incapacitated all primary controls of the ship can be accessible from the bridge. Also, the design of this ship's warp capabilities eradicate all former limitations and inconveniences from previous ship's designs; this ship is fully functional during warp due to the fact that the Warp Factor scale is _not _linear. Therefore, Warp 12 is actually three times as fast as Warp 8. The existence of anti-transwarp beaming countermeasures on this ship therefore can and will allow all systems to be successfully manned by an individual should the circumstances require it—a necessity given the fact that this vessel will see war, Admiral."

"And what is this weaponry you've got here," Marcus inquired, exiting out of the zoom-in of the hull diagram and now switching his diagram's focus onto the torpedo launchers. "I've never seen anything like it before…"

"That's because there has never been anything like it before," Khan stated arrogantly. "Upgraded deflector shields; heavily armored outer hull; far more extensive defense capabilities than most Federation vessels have contained in the past. However, that is not the crux of the improvements; in addition to the doubled magnitude of the _Vengeance's_ cannons, I have also taken it upon myself to design a very specific type of photon torpedoes for the vessel as well—which I personally will build alongside monitoring the construction of the _Vengeance. _Also, it should be noted that the ship's advanced phasers could be fired while the ship was at warp, a capability that has been a sore spot of weakness in Federation starships for far too long now. The ship is to be equipped with only the most technologically-advanced features including better shielding, more advanced transporters, and enhanced warp capabilities."

"Brilliant," Marcus praised, a decidedly accidental endearment that struck a fierce chord within Khan, causing him to clench his jaw so tightly that a vein bulged out from the side of his neck. He finally turned around, his coat swishing about him like a dark cape of shadows as he met Admiral Marcus' expression with a look fixated with nothing more but pure, acidic hatred.

"Do not attempt to compliment me, _Admiral_," the human augment growled. "I do not accept praise from one as insignificant as you are."

_Only John Watson can call me brilliant, you imbecilic tyrant._

"These torpedoes," Marcus thundered on, merely glancing unfazed at Khan's threatening expression before looking back down at his tablet. He pulled up the holographic image depicting the internal structure of the new weaponry. "Elaborate."

"I've kept most of your previous torpedo design intact," Khan explained, zooming in on the image before him. "But I've altered the interior compartment to make it more amendable for specific long-range targeted attacks."

"Alright, but this is what I meant for you to elaborate on," Marcus said, clicking on the image and watching as the hologram demonstrated how easily the interior fuel containers within the torpedoes could be removed with relative ease. "What is the purpose of _that_?"

"To make it easily accessible should the weapons be accidentally set off," Khan explained, an unfathomable expression painted across his stoic face. "Obviously if a misfire occurs with the torpedoes still onboard the ship, we would want to quickly and efficiently disable them so as to prevent blowing the _Vengeance_ up."

"Hmm," Marcus said, looking over the image once more before shutting the blueprint's hologram down completely. "Point taken."

"Quite," Khan said, accentuating the 't' pointedly.

"Everything seems to be in order, then," Marcus agreed, extracting the microchip from his tablet and pocketing it. "I will see to it that these plans get to the engineer's office here at the base…and we will make plans to expand the interior to accommodate for the vastness of the hull."

"Of course you will."

"And you are to start work on the torpedoes as soon as the materials come in, alright, Commander?" Marcus said, not waiting for an answer as he turned on his heel and marched away from Khan, already dialing up his main weapons engineering crews to prepare the dock for material transport vessels.

As soon as he knew he was alone on the deck, Khan allowed a small, devious smile to creep across his face. From within the pocket of his long coat he extracted a second microchip—the full blueprints of the photon torpedoes he was meant to build. Little did anyone in the Federation know that rather than planning the optimal efficiency for the _Vengeance's_ departure into an all-out war with the Klingons that he was purposefully fitting the ship to meet the requirements for a one-man mutiny against the Admiral—not just any one man, of course, but _himself_. 'Commander John Harrison—' _Khan_. Even the 'new and improved weaponry' was designed to his advantage. _A fuel container in the interior compartment could be removed to retrofit the torpedoes, not to deactivate their cores, _Khan thought snidely_, but to carry a humanoid-size individual encased in a cryotube._

The human augment ran his fingertips over the chip one last time before pocketing it, glancing over to the door in which the Admiral had previously exited through with the unknowingly false blueprints. _Idiot_.

-•-• •-•-

There was a warehouse dock just outside of the main transporter deck that Khan was provided to construct the _Vengeance's_ seventy-two photon torpedoes in. Provided with more than enough space and plenty of tools of the trade and computer systems to work with, Khan gratefully set right to work in focused seclusion. Very few materials had been provided yet, so it was merely a matter of setting up all of the proper plat forming and what-not for today's work—not much else to be done, though Khan was fervent to keep within his hideaway for as long as he could. Here was the work—not the Work, of course, for that would never be again—but work enough to keep his mind functioning mostly upon logic rather than hatred. Emotional disturbances could only get a man so far, after all; it was logic and science that had made the human race superior in the past. Now, as an augment, Khan knew the best of both sides of the spectrum, the emotional and rational inhibitions of the human body. When both worked as one unit, he was unstoppable, god-like in his power and control.

_Not yet,_ he had to continuously remind himself. _Not until they are with me. Not until he is by my side once more. _It was never difficult to regain control when he remembered that one wrong move would cost his John his life.

Khan sighed in annoyance upon hearing the cargo doors open, adjunct in refusing to greet whoever had the audacity to ruin his short moment to silence.

"Hello," a surprisingly bright, feminine voice greeted him. Khan lifted his head from the computer keyboard slowly, taking notice in the footfall patterns his female visitor took in approaching him, her clean, British accent, and the subtle scent of her floral perfume. She stopped a good couple of meters away from him to both respect his personal space and to have a proper angle by which to view the entirety of the warehouse. "All set up here?"

"Indeed," Khan said curtly, truly not wishing to engage in conversation at the moment, despite the woman's—_no, girl's_—inviting tone of voice. She unfortunately was not fazed in the slightest by his sharpness as she blundered on:

"Good." The sound of a stylus scripting across a tablet filled the quiet now; "The first shipment of materials should be available by tomorrow afternoon San Francisco time, approximately six hours after your transport shuttle will pick you up from your place of residence in the city tomorrow morning."

The writing paused. "What was your name again, Commander?"

_So she doesn't know who I am. Interesting; I'm curious now to see just how many other members of the Admiral's beloved Section 31 have been left in the dark…_Khan at last turned to grace the mysteriously intrusive female with his presence, regarding her sharply with a harsh, analytical glance.

"John," he said evenly, taking a single step towards her. After a short pause, he finally extended his hand out in greeting. "John Harrison. And you are…?"

"Lieutenant Carol Wallace," the girl said brightly, offering Khan a surprisingly genuine smile. "Pleasure to meet you, Commander Harrison. I will be your assistant in the construction of the torpedoes."

"I do not require an assistant," Khan informed her firmly. "In fact, I recall specifically telling the Admiral that I do not _wish_ to have anybody helping me with the torpedoes—it makes for far too much stupid in one room."

"Well, sorry to burst your bubble but you're getting me," Carol stated in equal firmness. "And I wasn't assigned. To be honest, technically speaking I am not permitted to be at this spacedock at all. I am here on my own accord, Commander, and for my own personal purposes."

She narrowed her eyes before continuing on:

"Also, if you don't mind a bit of bluntness, I doubt that I will add to any of the current stupidity in the room; I have a Starfleet certified doctorate in applied physics and engineering, specializing in advanced weaponry. Needless to say, I know how to do this kind of work, Commander, and I know how to do it _well_."

Khan regarded her carefully, looking her calculatingly in the eye and finding that every word that had just spouted from her lips had been nothing but the truth.

"You aren't supposed to be here." It was not a question, and Carol nodded in agreement to the statement.

"That's right. Just like you."

This actually managed to startle Khan ever so slightly, but he kept his face cool and collected as he demanded quietly: "Explain."

"My curiosity got to me, Commander, and so I admit I scanned your files before sneaking onto the Io Facility after my—after Admiral Marcus," she said, and Khan caught her glance to the left. _Something in that statement is a lie._ "You were automatically entered into the data system at the rank you are currently at. If you were a true commander you would have certainly been tracked and traced all throughout your time in the Starfleet Academy and every single one of your climbing ranks would have been recorded as well. And yet here you are, with practically no history to go by, building was will be the turning point of the Federation's wartime regime."

"Interesting deductions, to say the least," Khan said icily, slowly making to pace around Carol, observing her stance from all angles. She remained completely still as he did so, keeping her stoic stare straight ahead, refusing to back down from her statements. "…I wonder how you had access to classified personnel files, though, given your current rank—or rather, lack thereof."

Carol swallowed; she had not thought this far into their conversation in hope that Commander Harrison would falter upon being called out as a fake.

"I know a man."

"As do I. I know many men. This means nothing if you do not know the _right_ man, or in your case, if you are not _related_ to the right man in question, the very man who created my file. Correct?"

At this statement Carol gaped at Khan. "How did you—"

"You make it ridiculously simple to read you, Miss Marcus," Khan said, causing her expression to significantly falter upon the mention of her correct surname. "You may have every other imbecile onboard this spacedock fooled but you cannot fool a mind as powerful and uninhibited as mine. I was made to deduce a person's life story from a simple stain upon their shirt. If you honestly thought I could not read your true identity by a few argumentative but choice handfuls of words you are going to have a bad time."

Khan took one step away from Carol Marcus, clasping his hands behind his back and meeting her eyes.

"Don't try to lie to me again; it doesn't work."

Obviously Carol's plan fell through far deeper than she had intended. With a heavy sigh, she pressed her lips together and looked away from Khan's piercing glare, attempting to quickly and rationally come up with a half-decent comeback in order to allow her to stay and assist the Commander. More than anything, she wanted clarification; she could tell her father was doing something highly illegal, something that could potentially be counted as treason against the Federation and have him either imprisoned or executed as consequence. Though he could be rather thick-headed at times, there was something inside of her that wanted to see if she could stop Alexander Marcus before he dove in too deep.

"Fine," she acquiesced, lifting her hands up in defeat. "You've got me; you know who I am and you know what I know. In knowing that, you also are aware of the fact that I could have this entire operation terminated should anyone equal to my father's standings suddenly know about your false identity."

"Is that a threat?" Khan spoke in a dangerously low tone of voice.

"Take it as you will," Carol said, unaffected by his change in demeanor. "The point is both of us now know something of slight importance about one another, something that could easily put us both in compromising positions. So, you may as well even out the playing field a bit and tell me _your_ real name now."

"How amusing," Khan spoke through an acidic smile. "All you need to know about my true identity is that I give no quarter, no mercy should someone attempt to threaten me. Do not think just because you are a woman and you are related to my 'employer' that I shan't destroy you."

"It would be a lot easier for the both of us if you didn't do that," Carol said, and Khan could not help but be slightly impressed at how long she had been able to hold her stance despite his menace. "After all, why resort to barbarianism when we could just sit and talk instead? That would be the much more human approach."

"And who's to say I am human?"

Carol raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Khan.

"Well, that's one question out of the way, then. Anything else you'd like to tell me while you're at it?"

"Why do you want to know?" Khan regarded her, to which she shrugged her shoulders slightly.

"Once again: curiosity."

"I don't put my trust in many people, Miss Marcus," Khan said truthfully, turning away from her to go back to the computer. "I have no reason to do so."

Carol paused, thinking over his words, wondering over the true meaning underneath their context. In the end she could come up with a million possibilities and no sure-fire facts.

"If it means anything to you whatsoever," she began in a much softer tone of voice, "…I could at the very least be somebody to confide in."

Khan paused.

"Why would I wish to confide in you of all people?"

"Like I said, it was only a suggestion," Carol reasoned. "But who else could you confide in? I mean…you now know of my secretiveness. Why would I reveal your secrets when you now have an equal amount of information by which to blackmail me with?"

"You don't want to know my secrets," Khan said loathingly, staring into the computer screen without actually reading the diagrams projected upon them.

"Perhaps you should let me make that decision for myself," the weapons technician stated. "I want to know what kind of man my father has brought in to militarize Starfleet. I want to know everything about his secretive plans, and I will do anything to gain that information, Commander. If I cannot get it from you I will simply look elsewhere. Might as well allow for intelligent company rather than simply create a new enemy in me, don't you think?"

"Sometimes," Khan said with a smirk, "An enemy is much easier to handle than a friend."

"Why is that?"

"When friends turn on you," Khan said in a dangerously quiet voice, "It hurts far worse than having to deal with a foe."

Carol stopped, surprised at this display of humanity from Khan after experiencing so much of his nearly robotic intellect. Now she definitely wanted to know more, wanted to get closer to him—if not to gain information herself, then to help this poor creature before her. She gripped at her tablet, looking at the ground before her.

"…So far, Commander Harrison," she said gently, "You have given me no reason to betray your trust."

Khan smirked to himself. "You've known me for all of eight minutes."

"That's long enough to see you're not entirely who you seem to be on the outside," Carol reasoned, looking towards the back of his head. "That's long enough to be able to tell you've been hurt and that you are angry at the world."

She narrowed her eyes slightly, biting her lip before uttering: "And I'll bet that you are forced to be here against your will, under a bribe of some sort by my father's doing."

Khan clenched his jaw together tightly, fury bubbling at the mere voiced facts of his false employment. He glanced over his shoulder at Carol, his eyes shining: "You would be correct in concluding that."

"In that case," Carol began, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes as she bowed her head, "…I can no longer be sure of with whose side my allegiances lie. Especially if by doing this to you my father has betrayed the Federation and abused his rank. I simply cannot stand by such treason."

"You don't know anything yet."

"You haven't denied anything I've said," Carol pointed out, opening her eyes to look at Khan just as he slowly turned about to face her again. The augment leaned against the computer's vast keyboard, gripping lightly at the edge of the platform as he pressed his lips together.

"There is no point in you knowing anything about me," he repeated.

"It would get you to talk," she reasoned. "Sometimes talking things through helps us cope."

"Do not try to empathize with me, Miss Marcus."

"I already have."

"Caring will be your greatest mistake," Khan warned her. She met his eyes with the same intensity as he met hers.

"Why don't you let me make that judgment on my own," she said with quiet force, unblinking in her stare. Khan kept up his glare for as long as it suited him; he wanted her to know that she truly was doing the wrong thing, that in her eyes, once he finished his extensive tale of suffering and brutality that she had unintentionally empathized with the enemy. But she was stubborn, as stubborn as her father, the Admiral was, except she stood on the opposite side of the spectrum, her humanity blazing within her blue eyes rather than the same lust for war that her father's so piercingly held. Khan could respect her strong will and her forcefulness in how she handled his mental block. In that sense she nearly reminded him of John, of how he could always manage to be firm and yet so compassionate at the same time. Perhaps, like John, Carol Marcus for some reason would not see fit to cast Khan away into the flames of Hell as the rest of the world did despite his unharnessed brutality. Perhaps even this mere human being would manage to see the small bit of humanity remaining within him. In all honesty, he rather doubted it—especially after knowing this girl was raised by a man like the Admiral—but she had made her decision. She wanted to know everything she could, regardless of whether or not she would regret it in the end.

"…My name is Khan," he began, standing up straight and clasping his hands behind his back. "John Harrison is a creation of pure fiction, logged into the database, as you said, by your father merely for the purpose of concealing my true identity as a human augment to Starfleet command."

Carol knit her eyebrows together in slight confusion. "Human augment…?"

"Mmm, yes, you wouldn't know of such classified information would you? Clearly your research only dove so far," Khan said with a slight wrinkle of his nose. "Augment is a term used to describe a group of genetically engineered humans created by advances in DNA resequencing in the mid-20th century. We augments were designed to be remarkably agile, five times stronger than and twice as intelligent as a normal human being, resistant to sickness and with enhanced senses, possessing heart muscles twice as strong and lung efficiency fifty-percent better. Our blood contains platelets capable of regenerating from any disease or toxin, which can be used to cure or revive medical subjects via transfusion. We also have twice the average lifespan. Even our resistance to directed energy weapons is improved, as it takes multiple shots with a phaser or a phase pistol to successfully stun one of us.

"Along with our superior abilities there was a so-called defect in our altered genome: according to the very scientists who created us, the augments were 'aggressive, arrogant and ambitious, with a _diminished sense of morality_.' One of the scientists behind our creation even had the capacity to say that 'superior ability breeds superior ambition,' and then later theorized that a defect in the genomes of the augments created a malformation in our base-pair sequences that regulate the neurotransmitter levels in our brains, causing us to be highly prone to aggression and violent behavior. They never did see fit to 'fix' such a defect, however, which provokes me to wonder whether or not they truly considered it as one..."

"That would be why the program got effectively closed down, then," Carol Marcus said, her brow furrowed slightly at this streamline of information suddenly being thrust upon her. Khan raised an eyebrow.

"Not necessarily," he corrected her assumption. "The program ceased to be when the ramifications of taking perfectly intelligent human beings under their wing and gifting them with the solutions to all their physical limitations came to be. It is one thing to have a born super-genius running rampant across the globe; it is an entirely other thing when that genius has no physical hindrances to speak of, making them unstoppable in every practical sense of the word. We were created to rule, to govern as the perfect dictators of power—that is why my given name was 'Khan,' as a silent adage to the Genghis Khan, one of the greatest conquerors to ever have once walked the Earth. But when we did what we were made to do by any means necessary of doing so, we were immediately considered genocidal tyrants who conquered and killed in the name of order; thus, I and my kind were frozen in cryogenic sleep in order to be controlled once again."

"Yes," Carol began slowly, "Because you were killing people."

"We were doing precisely what we were made to do," Khan said pointedly, making Carol visibly pause.

"So you're saying that _Starfleet_ was responsible for creating all of that tyranny."

"Indeed," Khan said, his eyes glowing as he could see the gears within Carols mind whirring, could physically watch her catch on. He was staring, waiting for the horror of it all to set in when she suddenly inquired:

"Who were you before that happened, though, before you were unrightfully experimented upon?"

It was Khan's turn to noticeably pause. To put it bluntly, he very much was not expecting this question to turn up at all. Absolutely nobody had ever cared to know about Khan's human identity, about who he was before he became Khan. That was an entirely different lifetime to him now, when he lived not only in a different era, but a different life entirely.

"What do you mean by asking me that?" he asked carefully.

"I mean exactly what I said," Carol stated. "Who were you before Starfleet took it all away?"

Khan stared at her in minor disbelief; she really wanted to know. In complete honesty, she truly just inquired about a life long past, a life that had not been his in over two hundred and fifty years. _Where do I begin,_ he thought as countless memories valued greater than gold to him immediately rushed back into his effulgent mind all at once. There were cases long forgotten appearing from dust, hundreds of stories to regale, blog entries, conversations abundant…and in between all things pertaining to the Work, of course, was the unexpected blessing of a love since cherished. Khan blinked, feeling his chest significantly constrict at the thought of John Watson, and he found he had to take a deep breath to steady himself before looking Carol back in the eye and beginning from what very well could have been the proper beginning of it all:

"I was a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job…"

-•-• •-•-


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **This chapter was fun to write; hope y'all enjoy reading it as well! :)

Forever Avenge

_a Star Trek/Sherlock crossover_

III

[Stardate 2015,7: London]

Upon checking his dampened watch, John saw that it was nearing seven in the evening as he rode a cab back to Baker Street from work. The day had been rather busy, as a normal day in London's rainy season often was, for it seemed that rain and foul weather almost always did bring out the worst in a city as far as accidents and illnesses occurred. Admittedly, it was a wake-up call for John, having been out and about for the past two days now on a very particular case with Sherlock. Sarah was a much more understanding boss than most, but there was very little John could do during this trying time in the city's overall health to take off from his medical work. Not that he really wanted to take any time off, despite the case, for John always took his personal work very seriously as well. Thankfully his eccentric consulting detective of a flatmate at least somewhat pretended to understand this as well and had begrudgingly let him go that morning…_Let me go_, John scoffed inwardly. _I would _love _to see him just try to control me…_Before leaving Sherlock alone that day, however, John had chastised him, informing him as he nearly always did that three days (for it was going to be the third day on the case today) without eating anything or having an ounce of sleep was extremely bad for any human body, even Sherlock's. "_If I come back and find you wide awake, walking around this damned flat like a zombie without having had a second of sleep, you're going to get an earful from me!_" he had forcefully scolded the detective, meaning every word of the threat and hoping that at least a semblance of the message had sunken into Sherlock's thick head.

It was immediately apparent to the doctor that nothing he said had computed upon reaching 221B Baker Streetand seeing Sherlock standing in the window overhead. John shot him a nasty look upon emerging from his cab, breaking eye contact to hurriedly pay the cabbie and grab his bag from the backseat. Already he could think of about ten things to use in his subjugated scolding, frowning as he inserted his key into the door and hurriedly took to the stairs. Upon finding himself in the untidy room of the living room, though, John noticeably paused when he saw Sherlock curled up on the couch with his hands folded lightly beneath his chin, wearing nothing but a bed sheet. When he heard John step through the doorway, the detective had cracked open one eye.

"Traffic was particularly abhorred due to the rain, I presume?"

John set his bag down against the couch and nodded as he made to take off his dampened coat. "Yeah, sorry I woke you."

"I wasn't asleep."

He _knew_ it. "Sherlock—"

"Save it, John, I slept for a half-hour or so earlier," Sherlock amended in dismissal, sitting up and nodding over towards a very baggy parasol which leaned against the sofa next to him. "I had important matters to attend to, couldn't waste time with napping."

John touched his thumb and pointer finger to the bridge of his nose.

"Do I even want to know?"

"An old woman," Sherlock briefly stated, the explanation of the fact that the piece of feminine accessory was used for a disguise already well understood.

"First you were an unemployed workman and now today an old woman?" John said in disbelief, wondering upon where Sherlock got all of his ridiculous costumes from anyway. "Were you trailing the same guy?"

"Yes, of course."

"Figures that he didn't recognize you today…"

"I make a very convincing woman when I try," Sherlock stated smugly. John pointedly raised an eyebrow at Sherlock but decided against commenting, instead choosing to gesture towards the window he had certainly just seen Sherlock standing in. "Why's he back?"

'He' referred to the only possible way that Sherlock Holmes could be sitting upon the sofa wearing nothing but a sheet when John had definitely just seen him wearing lounge clothes in the window from outside not five minutes previous. Sherlock had brought back the convincing wax figure of himself he had used to trick Sebastian Moran into his inevitable arrest in the case of the murder of Ronald Adair for his current case. It did not surprise John to see the odd thing return out of the blue—god only knew where Sherlock kept the figure—but what did concern him was why he saw fit to utilize the resource once more, especially in a case like this.

The case was simple enough to follow: on the trail of a missing jewel, a Crown diamond no less, worth about £100,000. The stone in question was the Koh-i-Noor, a 105.6 metric carats diamond, weighing 21.6 grammes in the most recent cut state, and once the largest known diamond. The Koh-i-Noor—according to what he and Sherlock had been told and to what Sherlock himself just so happened to know of the stone—is believed to have originated in the state of Andhra Pradesh in India together with its double, the Darya-ye Noor—or the "Sea of Light". In 1850, the diamond was confiscated from Duleep Singh by the British East India Company and became part of the British Crown Jewels when Queen Victoria was proclaimed Empress of India in 1877. The diamond was traditionally known as Syamantaka-mani and later Madnayak or the "King of Jewels", before being renamed "Kuh-e nur" in the 18th century by Nādir Shāh after his conquest of India. The diamond is currently set into the Crown of Queen Khushi and is on display at the Tower of London.

Or it was, that is, until Detective Inspector Lestrade got the call that once again while he and his men were on duty the Tower had been broken into, and this time, somebody was unfortunately successful in making off with one of the Crown Jewels. Immediately the case had become of National importance, inadvertedly making Sherlock more or less disgruntled to accept it, but through some powerful persuasion not just on Lestrade and Mycroft's parts. The Prime Minister himself and the Home Secretary had been to see Holmes, along with a Lord Cantlemere, who is apparently no great fan of Sherlock Holmes and no believer in his deductive powers. John wholeheartedly believed that the fact that this one man could possibly be opposed to engaging Holmes to recover the precious gem due to disbelief had struck an arrogant chord within his flatmate, making the case suddenly more interesting solely by the wish to, if nothing else show off his esteemed intellectual prowess.

"I'm expecting to be murdered tonight." Sherlock nonchalantly informed his flatmate, rising from the couch to adjust his eerily realistic figurine.

John regarded him in disbelief. "How you manage to say something like that in a joking manner I will never know, but seriously?"

"Even my limited sense of humor could devise a better joke than _that_," Sherlock said, turning to face John, the long sheet whipping around him like a cloak. "Tea? Oh, what the heck, something a bit stronger if you've got it."

"How about _food_?"

"Don't start," Sherlock as exasperatedly as he flopped lazily into his chair and stretching, making the sheet slide slightly off of his bare chest and shoulders. "The facilities become refined when you starve them, I—"

"Save it," John said, waving him off mid-plunder as he begrudgingly turned to go put the kettle on. "Dare I ask who you think is going to try to kill you this evening?" he asked as he reached up to grab two mugs out of the cupboard. Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow at John.

"Why, so you can shoot them before they try?"

"Perhaps, if it should come to that," John said, gritting his teeth together in slight anxiety. Why must his idiotic flatmate continuously and purposefully throw himself into these life-threatening situations? He knew only too well the immense risks taken by Sherlock and was well aware that what he said was more likely to be an under-statement than an exaggeration. John was always a man of action, and he sure as Hell was going to rise to this occasion whether the detective wanted him to or not.

"Negretto Sylvius," Sherlock finally stated, after taking in the distinct moment of silent tension between the two of them following John's verbal vow to observe the man's overall demeanor with curiosity. He thought he had noticed something a bit off-kilter in his voice for a second there, but now as he watched John rustle around the cabinet for his package of tea, he could pinpoint nothing in particular. "…In fact, you should probably put his address in your memory, just in case things should come off not according to plan tonight. Write this down—"

"Hold on, _hold on_," John said, hurriedly placing the teabags in his grasp into two separate, steaming mugs of water before quickly exiting the kitchen to his bag and extracting the small notebook and pen he used to quickly jot down case notes. He paused: "Wait, if you have his address, why haven't you called the police and given it to them?"

"Because I don't know where the diamond is—_are you ready to write yet_?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Yes I am, go."

"136 Moorside Gardens, N.W. Give it to the Yard if I don't survive the night, with my love and a parting blessing," he added with great sarcasm at the end of his statement, rolling his eyes. John shut his eyes.

"Must you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Devalue your life." John shook his head: "If I were a psychologist I'd peg you as a manic depressive."

"I don't do that," Sherlock said, furrowing his brow in confusion. John cocked his head to the side.

"Yes you do. You're doing it right now."

"Well, I'm not actually going to be killed, am I?" Sherlock pointed out, turning to nod at the dummy in the window. "This—giving you Sylvius' address for the Yard to arrest him—is simply a back-up plan, in case things go screwy, which I highly doubt they will."

"And if it does?" John had to inquire, crossing his arms at Sherlock. "What then?"

"I was hoping you would ask," Sherlock said with a grin, dramatically wrapping his sheet up around himself as he leapt from his chair and walked back towards the couch, lifting up one of the cushions he had previously been laying upon. John raised him eyebrows in slight alarm when he extracted his revolver from the crude hiding spot. "I've made a few alterations to my gun today that you may be interested in making to yours as well. You know certainly enough about the fingerprint matching in the new special police force weapons, of course?"

John scoffed. "Hardly new, and haven't you heard from Lestrade? The CID is expecting to receive newly developed phasers within the next fortnight. Their fingerprint-memory guns will be old hat when _those_ come in."

"I didn't know about that," Sherlock said in a low voice. "The very same kind that Sebastian Moran owned?"

"The same," John said gravely, making Sherlock curse under his breath. It was bad enough that the higher-ups involved in the government and thereby inadvertedly in the know of secret government experiments and advancements were immersed in new, classified photon tech, but now members of the public were going to get their hands upon it before Sherlock could? In the consulting detective's eyes, this was very bad news for future cases—_very _bad news, indeed. If there was anything Sherlock hated more than stupidity, it was not being in the immediate and invigorative _know_ of anything and everything to do with the Work.

"I know what I'm stealing from Lestrade next," Sherlock muttered. John frowned deeply at the thought of having any sort of photon weaponry in the flat.

"_Sherlock_—"

"Anyhow, back to this," Sherlock barreled through John's warning, holding up his gun. "I've input scans of my fingerprints into the internal microchip, making it so that the only way for a person to be able to fire this weapon is for his fingerprints to match those on file. If anyone else other than me tries to fire this revolver, it won't shoot at all."

Sherlock glanced over at the desk against the back wall of the living room, where John's gun was sitting idly as he placed his own upon the arm of the couch. "I'm willing to upgrade your gun as well should you choose to—"

"Uhm, _no_," John said firmly, marching across the room to retrieve his weapon. "And I thought I told you not to touch my gun?"

"I was merely trying to help," Sherlock stated with a slight shrug of his sheet. "Could be useful."

"There's a reason the military never amended to have fingerprint matching in their weaponry," John explained, clicking the safety on his pistol. "If there was ever a point in battle when you for some reason or another lost the weapon you were originally assigned while you were under siege, you're going to want to be able to pick up another weapon to defend yourself and your fellow men with it. I'll take the risk and leave my weapon the way it is, thank you."

Once again, another shrug from beneath the sheet as John sighed and placed his gun upon the arm of the sofa next to Sherlock's. Before either of them could speak again, the doorbell rang sharply. Sherlock and John immediately looked towards the staircase, listening intently as Mrs. Hudson opened the door and spoke with whoever was downstairs. As John continued to listen carefully, though, Sherlock turned away and frowned, knowing exactly who it was and who they were here for.

"I wasn't expecting this," he admitted, and then his frown turned up into something more of an amused smile. "A man of nerve—he knew I was stalking him closely. Perhaps I may have gotten a little too close at some point or another. No matter!"

John turned and looked at him in slight alarm towards his flippantness just as Mrs. Hudson emerged from the stairwell.

"Woo-hoo!" she said, knocking upon the doorframe. "There's a Mister Sylvius here to see you Sherlock—oh my, and you're not even _dressed_!"

"I will be momentarily," Sherlock said in dismissal. "If you'll just be so kind as to request three minutes from him to do so that would be greatly appreciated."

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Hudson agreed, smiling kindly once at John before turning to relay Sherlock's message to his would-be murderer. John watched to make sure she was out of ear-shot before looking pointedly at Sherlock.

"Can I call the police _now_?"

"In a moment, wait until he's in here first," he said, hurrying over to the window. "You see? He's brought that fatuous companion of his, Sam Merton along."

"Will he be armed?" John asked, concernedly peering through the curtains next to Sherlock.

"Most likely," Sherlock said, glancing over at John. "Phone Lestrade from Mrs. Hudson's phone, not your mobile; Merton will be able to track a smartphone, but not a landline. Oh, and by the way, we're out of milk again."

"_What_?" John said, staring at Sherlock as if he had lost his mind, mentioning milk at a time like this. Instead, the man shot him one last long, pointed look in the eye before sweeping off towards the bedroom and loudly shutting the door behind him. _We're out of milk again_…it was a code, John realized. More or less, Sherlock was giving him an unquestioning excuse to get him away from Baker Street, away from the line of fire just in case. If anything happened to him, Sherlock had basically told him by doing this, it was imperative by his last dying wish that no harm should come to John. He scoffed at the thought, picking up his coat and shrugging it back on, still a bit damp from the evening's previous downpour; stay away and allow his best friend to be shot at whilst he did a bit of grocery shopping? No way in _Hell_ that was going to happen.

With a façade of nonchalance carefully painted across his face, John exited the flat, treading down the stairs and making towards the door. "Oh, buggar," he muttered, making a scene of checking his coat pockets as he approached where Mrs. Hudson stood keeping the unknown jewel thief company. "Mrs. Hudson, may I borrow your phone? I seem to have left my mobile back up in the flat…"

"Of course, dearie," Mrs. Hudson said, excusing herself from where she casually stood next to Negretto Sylvius. "You know where it is, right? On the wall in the kitchen?"

"Yes, ma'am, thank you," John said politely as she left him in her quaint little kitchen. Taking the phone off of its hook and—after making sure Mrs. Hudson or Sylvius could not see him—extracted his mobile momentarily from his pocket in order to recall the DI's number.

"_This is Lestrade._"

"Greg, it's John," he spoke quietly but urgently, poking his head around the corner just in time to see Sylvius tread up the stairs towards his and Sherlock's flat.

"_John, what is it_?" Lestrade said from the other line, utilizing his professional tone of voice upon hearing the urgency in John's.

"We're going to need back up here, at 221B," John informed the DI. "There's been a threat made on Sherlock's life by a man that is currently in our flat with him right now."

"_Why the bloody Hell_—"

"It's _Sherlock_, Greg," John said, rolling his eyes. "And as usual, he's put himself into an unnecessarily dangerous situation over a bloody case."

"_We'll be right over, alright?_"

"Bring back up; I don't know this guy, so God only knows how dangerous he really is."

"_Got it._"

John hung up, trying to both visibly and mentally relax as he tried to quickly figure out an efficient next step since he was adamantly against following Sherlock's orders to run away.

"…You mean to tell me I just mindlessly chatted with a murderer?" Mrs. Hudson spoke from the other room, her voice shaking ever-so-slightly in unease. John sighed; he had been hoping to keep well enough a secret from her.

"_Pretty much_," he muttered out of earshot before turning to face his landlady. "Everything is going to be just fine, Mrs. Hudson, alright? You heard me; the police are on their way right now."

"But Sherlock's up there with him!" she said, looking up as if she could see straight through the ceiling into the men's living room from where she stood. "I hope he knows what he's doing."

"You and me both," John agreed, also briefly looking up.

Meanwhile, in the near breathtakingly intense air of 221B…

"Mister Sylvius, I presume?" Sherlock said with a false pretense of utter politeness. Immediately upon hearing the man enter the flat, he had stood from his chair, his violin discarded upon the coffee table in haste. "_Do _come in, kettle's just boiled."

"How amusing…Mister Sherlock Holmes."

The man sauntered into the room, hands folded neatly before him in an air of elegance and grace that was sharply muffled by the inert scowl he had placed upon his face. Sherlock met the man's look evenly, not bothering to move towards the kitchen to fetch his rather unwelcome guest one of the fantastically prepared mugs of tea left abandoned by his flatmate in his ordered haste to leave. Negretto Sylvius appeared as a big, swarthy fellow, with a formidable dark moustache shading a cruel, thin-lipped mouth, and surmounted by a long, curved nose like the beak of an eagle. He was well dressed, Sherlock observed rapidly, but his brilliant accessories proved to be more flamboyant than polished in their overall effect. As the door closed behind him he looked around with fierce, startled eyes overshadowing his pointed grimace, like one who expects a trap at every turn. Then he gave a violent start as he saw the shadow of the faux-Sherlock standing erect in the window. At first his expression was one of pure amazement—_as it should be_, Sherlock thought haughtily. Then the light of a horrible hope gleamed in his dark, murderous eyes. He took one more glance round to see that there were no witnesses, and then re-faced the detective.

"Have a seat, Mister Sylvius," Sherlock said, his tone of voice decidedly echoing the dark look upon his antagonist's face.

Sylvius remained right where he was, scowling with heavy, threatening eyebrows.

"You want to talk," Sylvius minutely observed. "That is fine, I suppose; I too have some words with you, Holmes…though I won't deny that I intended to assault you just now."

"It would be utterly pointless to deny such a thing since I obviously already knew that," Sherlock retorted, gesturing towards his wax figure in the window. "Do you like it? An acquaintance of mine crafted it for a previous case of mine. Tavernier, his name is; a French modeller of sorts, owed me a favor."

Sherlock smirked at the astounded look on Sylvius' face. Certainly the man was not expecting this degree of uncanny aloofness from the detective, especially after admitting his intentions of homicide directly to him. He turned and walked past the criminal, sitting himself down upon the sofa and swinging his legs over on the edge of the coffee table before him.

"I knew you were particularly suspicious, of course, but may I ask what killing me would serve to you? Why dirty your hands with the likes of me?"

"An eye for an eye," Sylvius replied ominously, crossing his arms as he stared down at Sherlock. "You have gone out of your way to annoy me with those _creatures_ of yours you had put on my track."

"My creatures?" Sherlock asked amusedly in clarification. "I'm sure I have no idea what you are talking about."

"I'm sure you do!" the man barked back sharply, hoping to break Sherlock's cool mask but coming back from his efforts fruitless. "I have had them followed. Two can play at this game, Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," Sherlock said, containing a snarky laugh at the infuriated redness of Sylvius' expression. "And I've sent no one but myself after you; I wouldn't dare trust anyone else with that level of investigative work…"

This made Sylvius pointedly pause, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock after a moment of contemplation.

"It—it was you, yourself?"

Sherlock shrugged, gesturing towards the parasol he had used just that morning in his disguise still settled against the couch. "Look familiar?"

Sylvius gritted his teeth together: "If I had known, you might _never_—!"

"Have seen this flat again? I was well aware of it," Sherlock said, waving off Sylvius' belated threat. "As it happens, you did not know nor did you catch on in time, so here we are."

The criminal's knotted brows gathered more heavily over his menacing eyes. "What you say only makes the matter worse. You admit you dodged me, however…why?"

"Don't be so stupid, Sylvius, especially being the experienced gamesman you are."

"Well?"

"_Why_?"

"Why?" Sylvius said incredulously, wondering why the answer was not already so obvious to the supposed mastermind sitting before him. "The sport, of course—the excitement—the _danger_!"

"My reasons exactly!" Sherlock said, loudly clasping his hands together. In startlement, Sylvius' hand shot to his pocket, where the distinct shape of a gun pointedly existed. Sherlock rolled his eyes:

"Oh sit down, will you? You'll get your chance—we're not done talking just yet."

"Don't you try to fool around with me, Holmes," Sylvius snarled, remaining right where he was though he did pull his hand away from the gun.

"Oh fine," Sherlock said in dismissal. "I suppose I trailed you for the diamond as well. But you knew that much already didn't you?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about," Sylvius stated, though his face betrayed him with the evil smile that had wrapped itself around his features like a serpent preparing to strike.

"Oh, spare me the act of stupidity, Negretto; it gets utterly tiresome after the first ten seconds," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as he clasped his hands together. "You knew all along that I was after you for that. The real reason you are here tonight is to find out how much I know about the matter and how far my removal is absolutely essential. Well, I should say that, from your point of view, it is absolutely essential, for I know all about it, save only one thing, which you are about to tell me."

"Oh, am I?" Sylvius spoke in chastisement. "Do tell me what you want to know, Holmes."

"Where the Crown diamond now is."

Sylvius looked sharply at Sherlock.

"How do you know I should be able to tell you where it is?"

"You can and you will."

"Indeed!"

"You can't lie to me, Negretto Sylvius." Sherlock's eyes, as he gazed calculatingly at him, contracted and lightened until they were like two menacing points of steel. "You're practically made of glass; I can see straight through to the very back of your mind."

"Then, of course, you see where the diamond is!"

Sherlock's expression turned to one of pristine amusement as he pointed a derisive finger. "Then you _do_ know where it is; you've admitted it!"

"I admit nothing."

"If you will be reasonable, Sylvius, then we can do business," Sherlock informed him sharply. "If not, you _will_ get hurt."

Sylvius threw his eyes up to the ceiling. "And you talk about lying…"

Sherlock regarded him thoughtfully like a master chess-player who meditates his crowning move.

"…Then let's delve into the subject of _blackmail_, now, shall we, Mister Sylvius?"

The smooth, devilishly dark tone of Sherlock's voice made Sylvius second-guess his firm stance as Holmes grabbed a notebook from the top of the coffee table in front of him and whipped through it in disheveling nonchalance.

Back downstairs, John just so happened to catch out of the corner of his eye movement from just outside of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen window. He narrowed his eyes, slowly making to rise from his chair at the table with his landlady and double-checking his pants for his pistol.

"I'll just be one moment, Mrs. Hudson…the police will be here soon," he said as he quickly exited her presence and walked straight out the door of the flat. Sam Merton was turned away from him when he approached, digging through the contents of the backseat of his and Negretto Sylvius' car. "_A moment, if you will, please_," the stout man called in a muffled voice from within the cab upon certainly hearing John approach. With an eyebrow raised, John acquiesced the accomplice's minor request, standing back upon his heels and crossing his arms as he carefully watched Merton's meticulous movements. It looked as if he was assembling something of a medium-smallish size. Before John could catch a decent look at what exactly it was, however, Merton had stowed it securely within his coat. Despite a minor bulge in the fabric, there was no way for John to tell what exactly Merton had put together, though he would have been willing to bet money that it was a weapon.

"Going to assist you friend, hmm?" John said, avoiding the whole beating-around-the-bush part of their conversation altogether. He uncrossed his arms and re-folded his hands together behind his back, patting lightly at the bulge of his gun at the back of his coat for security. If this all went shady out here, he needed to know he would be able to rapidly whip out the weapon and lay a straight shot right in between the man's eyes before he did so to him.

"If methinks it necessary, yes," Sam replied casually, folding his hands in front of himself. "Fer right now, though, I'm only lookin' to join in his and Sherlock Holmes' 'chat.'"

"Oh, why do that when we could have such a lovely chat out here?" John said, his voice laced with thick sarcasm as he gestured up into the light rain that continued to persist to fall upon London. Sam Merton grinned a dark, berating grin at John.

"You would like that, wouldn't ya?" the stout man spoke, "Keeping me down here…defending yer boyfriend."

"We're not together," John corrected him with a stern frown of sheer pique. Merton laughed out loud in John's face.

"I've seen you two around, y'know," he continued despite John's interjection. "You keep close tails on that one, whether you know it or not. Bloody disgusting, your relationship."

"Come off it," John protested. "We're not in a relationship!"

"Hurm," Sam Merton said, pleased by the reactions he was eliciting from Sherlock Holmes' irritable flatmate. "But you wish you was in one wit' him, don't you?"

"I could say the same to you," John turned the tables on Merton in an effort to ignore his stupid words, nodding his head up to 221B. "You and Negretto Sylvius, right? Just mates, or is there something more there as well…?"

Sam's eyebrow twitched. "Shut yer mouth."

"Not so fun when you're on the receiving end, is it?" John spoke freely. "'Bloody disgusting,' isn't it, Merton?"

"I swear, John Watson, I'll—"

But the man froze upon seeing the stream of easily identifiable blue and red lights rapidly approaching down the street. John licked his lips and glanced indifferently down the street towards the incoming CID forces, silently relieved at Detective Inspector Lestrade's timeliness.

"What was that, now?" John casually asked Merton, but just as he turned to reface the accomplice he found himself to be violently pushed out of the way whilst the burly man bolted for the door and rapidly entered the flat. John stumbled but caught himself quickly before he completely tumbled onto the damp concrete below him. _Dammit!_

"John!" Lestrade's voice quickly approached, his shoes slapping onto the pavement. Immediately he was by the doctor's side. "You alright?"

"Upstairs," John barked, brushing off Lestrade's concern as he charged for the door, yanking his pistol out from his pants. "They're armed, _come on_!"

"Right," Lestrade said, hot at John's heels with his gun extracted, cocked and ready to fire at a split second's notice. John cursed again when he tried the knob, for it did not budge a bit as it very well should have. "It's _locked_," he informed Lestrade over his shoulder before banging loudly upon the wood.

"MRS. HUDSON!"

"What are you going to do now?" Sylvius asked of Sherlock back upstairs in 221B. Sherlock ignored the man's unvoiced threat and glanced out the window to the right of him just in time to see John and Lestrade running back into the flat. He did not have much time, and the jewel thief before him was being tiresomely unreasonable; despite Sherlock's penetrating blackmail, he had yet to divulge the whereabouts of the Koh-i-Noor diamond.

Sherlock returned his attention to his unwanted guest upon hearing the click of his gun.

"You won't die in your bed, Holmes," the man informed Sherlock, slowly and threateningly pulling his weapon out from within his pocket and pointing it straight at Sherlock's head.

"Never thought I would," Sherlock was inclined to agree with Sylvius. "That being said, does it really matter very much? The anticipations of the future are morbid. Why give up the enjoyment of the present to ponder the inevitable?"

A sudden, wild-beast light sprang up in the dark, menacing eyes of the criminal. Sherlock's figure tensed ever so slightly as he scooted a bit closer towards the cushion beneath which his own revolver was hidden.

"It's no use in pointing that gun," he spoke in a quiet, dangerous tone of voice. "You know perfectly well that you dare not use it, even if I gave you time to pull the trigger. Besides, I think I hear the fairy footsteps of your '_estimable'_ partner," he piped up suddenly and sarcastically, turning his head just in time to see Sam Merton launch into the flat and shut and bolt the door locked behind him, his carbine revolver extracted and lifted heavily up into his grasp.

"Mister Merton," Sherlock stiffly greeted Negretto Sylvius' companion, ignoring the banging on the door behind him. "Won't you come in and sit down? Your employer and I were having such an engaging conversation just before you arrived…"

The fighter, a heavily built young cockney man with a stupid, obstinate, slab-sided face, stood awkwardly into the room, looking about him with a slightly puzzled expression. Sherlock's debonair manner was a new experience—especially in comparison with the tussle he had just verbally engaged with John Watson outside—and though he vaguely felt that it was hostile, he did not know how to counter it. He lowered his weapon slightly and turned to his more astute comrade for help.

"You won't allow our arrest if you can get the stone from us," Sylvius observed as the knocking upon the flat's door came to a sudden halt. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Really, it would be much simpler if you just handed it over and went on your way with the police, now, wouldn't it?" Sherlock said. "I've grown bored of our tirade, Mister Sylvius."

"Or I could just shoot you now and be done with your smart arse," Sylvius stated, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

"That would be rather stupid of you," Sherlock replied. "You would certainly get less time for theft and attempted murder than first-degree murder."

"There's someone else in the room," Merton spoke urgently, raising his gun and cocking it back to fire at the figure in the window.

"You fool, that's only a dummy!" Sylvius yelled at his idiotic companion just before he was about to shoot. Upon further squinting, the man finally realized his stupid move.

"Oh…"

"For god's sake…" Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes. "At this point I'd rather you hurry up and shoot me after all rather than force me to listen to the utterings of _this_ moron."

Sylvius and his companion started upon hearing the vicious knocking upon the door once again, the lights from the police cars outside casting color splashes of broad red and blue tints across the darkened room. Sherlock sighed and quickly snatched his gun from beneath the pillow of the couch, rising from the piece of furniture and pointing the weapon straight at Sylvius' head. The consulting detective had finally lost his patience.

"Here's the thing, Negretto Sylvius," Sherlock began, speaking quickly but clearly:

"You have three options, none of which end in your favor whatsoever. One, you hand over the stone and turn yourself in like the good government official that you are—or, I suppose at this point, once were—and then everyone goes home, the stone gets returned, case closed. Done.

"Two, you can hand over the stone and make a feeble attempt to run. I will even allow you to do so, just for the sheer amusement of watching you try and get past the line of police cars and the officers that now have this flat all but completely surrounded. In the end, the result will be the same as the first.

"Three, you can go ahead and shoot me, just as you had planned to do so. Once again, you are surrounded, however; if you try to make off with the stone and with a murder charge on your head you most certainly won't get very far. So, take your pick, though I daresay you won't have much time to do so."

"You planned this whole scheme out, didn't you?" Merton said. "Chasing us aroun' London, making us suspicious—how did you even figure out Sylvius had the stone on him anyway?"

There was a long, silent pause, in which Sylvius' expression quickly dropped from one of defeat to one of anger. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a grin.

"I didn't figure it out," he admitted. "It was a long shot, but apparently a good one since now I know I am correct."

" ._buffoon_," Sylvius growled at Merton, to which the stubby man could only gulp and bow his head in idiotic shame. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Sylvius, looking him in the eye without so much as lowering his weapon by a mere centimeter.

"So…which will it be?" he prompted the criminal impatiently.

"No need to shout, dearie," John's landlady reprimanded him gently. "I was just in the other room dusting, had to stop what I was doing first, sorry. Oh good, the police have arrived!"

"Excuse us, ma'am," Lestrade spoke gruffly to the old woman, following John rapidly up the stairs. They could here talking and could begin to make out more and more words from the three men's conversation as they approached the landing…

"…If I'm going down, Sherlock Holmes," Negretto Sylvius decided aloud, raising his gun back up and pointing the barrel straight up into Sherlock's head, "I'm taking you down with me."

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at Sylvius before turning in the direction from which John and Lestrade came running into the room. The idiotic Sam Merton, fool that he was, quickly took action against them and flung his gun around, firing off two shots in their general direction. John's militant instinct took hold of him immediately upon seeing the gun move and he roughly grabbed at Lestrade's midsection, yanking him none-too-gently to the ground with him, narrowly ducking beneath the line of fire, feeling the heat from the ricocheted bullets sweep clear over the top of his head before making loud contact with the wall behind them. Sherlock turned to shoot at Merton just as John lifted his pistol back up and precisely attempted to shoot Sylvius straight in the hand…but the gun simply clicked in his grasp. John's expression of seriousness immediately turned to one of annoyance as he looked closer at the weapon in his hands.

"This is _your_ gun, Sherlock!" he yelled in sore panic; thankfully his minor fit was enough to distract Sylvius long enough for Sherlock to fire John's pistol, catching the sports shooter unexpectedly. The poisoned breath John had been holding released immediately upon watching the man drop the weapon he had pointed at Sherlock and scream out in agony. Blood spewed from the circular wound in his palm, and he fell to his knees before the consulting detective, who still had his bright, focused eyes fixated upon Merton. The bleeding man's companion had his previous dumbfounded expression re-plastered across his stupid face as his trigger hand began to quake in realization that he had ultimately failed at his duty to protect his criminal employer. With one last, fleeting look at Sherlock, he gripped his weapon against his chest and sprinted out of the room; John tried to make a lunge at him but Lestrade held him back, pressingly calling for his back-up officers to be ready to receive the escaping shooter at the front door on his radio.

John rose and picked up Sylvius' gun from the ground where he had dropped it in pain as Lestrade forced the injured man onto his feet and made to cuff him.

"Wait," Sherlock said, holding a hand up to Lestrade before looking his attempted murderer in the eye.

"The diamond. Hand it over."

Negretto Sylvius looked at Sherlock with the most hateful, hideous expression a man could possibly fixate upon his face before furiously thrusting his uninjured fist into his pocket. From within the depths of his trousers he pulled out the most supremely-cut diamond John had ever seen, its many facets managing to reflect light even in the dimness of their living room. With no attention to care towards the Crown jewel whatsoever, Sylvius shoved it into Sherlock's waiting hand.

"Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes," the man snarled, glowering atrociously at the consulting detective as Lestrade finally cuffed and secured him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him as he was led out of the room and down the stairs by the DI and called after him: "No, thank you!"

John closed his eyes in utter mirth and clenched his jaw; he clicked the safety on Sylvius' gun and set it down on the edge of the sofa before doing the same to Sherlock's in turn while the man made to quickly shrug on his coat. He cleared his throat and Sherlock turned; after a moment's pause a look of understanding crossed his face and he crossed the room to where John stood and handed him his gun, trading the pistol for his own revolver. Slowly the doctor could already feel his adrenaline begin to wind down while he descended the stairs behind Sherlock, his own gun now stashed in the back of his pants. In the open doorway, chilled because of the cold, rainy wind blowing into the entryway stood a worried-looking Mrs. Hudson.

"I heard gunshots," she explained, visibly calming down significantly upon seeing her boys alive and well before her eyes. John patted her on the arm, offering her a grateful though still slightly-shaken smile.

"Thanks again for letting me use your phone," he mentioned, bringing a small smile to the old woman's lips.

Quickly he caught up with Sherlock, who was looking around the chaotic mass of police officers and blinking car lights to be expected at any half-decent crime scene.

"You got lucky," John muttered to his flatmate as he handed over Sylvius' handgun to a member of the investigative crew. Sherlock didn't even glance in John's direction as he replied.

"Luck neither exists nor had anything to do with the events of tonight. Despite my plan admittedly beginning to fall apart at that last minute before you and Lestrade arrived, I had it all under control."

"You call that _control_—?"

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called, hastily swooping over to the DI just as he secured Negretto Sylvius in the back of a police cab. "Where is Merton?"

"He got away," Lestrade said with a deep, pissed-off frown. "I don't know _how_, but he successfully slipped off. Apparently we didn't have the place as closed-off as I intended for it to be."

"For god's sakes, can't you imbeciles do your jobs right for _once_?" Sherlock fulminated, earning an almighty scowl from the dampened DI. "There was no reason for that moron to have been allowed to escape!"

"I agree," Lestrade said. "That most certainly wouldn't have happened if I'd been out here!"

"Nobody asked for you to play the hero, Lestrade!"

"You ought to be glad I _did_, or else it would've been _your_ blood spilled out onto that carpet, especially with him without a properly armed weapon at hand," Lestrade said pointedly, nodding toward John who also scowled. Usually at this point of a heated argument between the two detectives he would have intervened to try to both keep the peace and a professional demeanor on the job, but Sherlock most definitely had it coming this time around. Lestrade was right, he would have died without him interfering; he had no right to be ungrateful towards the man who just about saved his life. But of course, Sherlock being Sherlock would never acknowledge nor attest to that fact, though both John and Lestrade could tell by his darkened demeanor that he knew they were right, that he needed their back-up in this particular instance.

"Now, are you going to help us track Sam Merton down and close this case up or are you going to just continue to blame my men for this all going screwy, Sherlock?" Lestrade prompted the man. After a moment's worth of a pause Sherlock huffed, pulling the Crown diamond out of his pocket and observing it with slight interest as its many cuts and facets shown not only the reflection of the cop car lights and headlights, but many colors in between, creating an abstract, mixed-up rainbow out of an otherwise normal, rainy London scene.

"…Give me an hour or so to track Merton down," Sherlock finally acquiesced, handing the jewel over to the DI for him to return it to its proper place in the Tower of London.

"Text me the address when you have it," Lestrade said, looking up at Sherlock from the large, shimmering diamond in his hand.

-•-• •-•-

Sherlock was still musing about Sam Merton's escape when he and John re-entered their disheveled flat.

"I can't believe he got away!" Sherlock said loudly in frustration, hastily hanging his coat back up and unwinding his scarf from around his neck. "We had the place surrounded, were both there—_right there_, John—and then he pulls out and runs, ruining everything like the coward he is!"

"Mmm," was all John could say in response. The doctor knew better; whenever Sherlock got frustrated over a certain class of criminal it was always better to just ignore him and let the wave of unease pass. He took his jacket off and tossed it upon the back of one of the lounge chairs, watching with interest as Sherlock paced the perimeter of the sitting room, trying to figure out the best step to take next in catching this man they were now hunting. At last the detective clasped his hands together loudly, running over to where his laptop was currently situated upon the desk and quickly powering it up.

"What, what are you looking at?" John asked curiously.

"Local train schedules," Sherlock explained bluntly, typing in his password. John almost asked the detective to explain further but decided against it, knowing that it will all be explained within the next five minutes most likely.

"Then while you do that," John said, walking to the other side of the room where Sherlock sat, "Can I see your revolver?"

"Sure," Sherlock said, waving John off in the general direction of his coat.

"Thanks," John said, taking the gun out of the inner pocket it was stored within and examining the exterior, looking for where the microchip was stored in the handle. "Where do you input fingerprint memory into this thing?"

At that question Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking at John through his peripheral vision.

"What do you need to know that for?" he questioned the doctor.

"Because," John said, his voice rising ever so slightly as he looked back towards Sherlock, "If something like what happened tonight happens again in the future I want to be able to shoot the bastard, regardless of whose gun I pick up."

"What does that have to do with—"

"Don't play dumb, Sherlock, it doesn't suit you at all," John growled, voice still raised. "I want to input my fingerprint scans into your revolver so that I can use it, too. It can hold multiple scans, right?"

Sherlock turned around and beheld John's obviously unsettled and rather peeved demeanor with slight bewilderment; what was the point about getting angry over fingerprint scans? Unless something outside of the subject of fingerprints is what set him off. Could he possibly still be agitated from their near-death encounter? No, surely not, they have had many of those, and he was in the army, after all. A man like John should be more than used to that sort of high-stress situation. What made this time different though? _Ah_…it was because this time, John was completely useless, unable to help Sherlock, unable to do anything about the threat to his and his friend's lives. John was not used to being so vulnerable, though he had been put through that kind of thing before; but seeing _Sherlock_ being put through that and knowing that there was nothing he could do to stop it, _that_ was what made him angered. That and, of course, the fact that Sherlock had purposely allowed himself to be put into the line of fire in order to solve a case—a habit more than frowned upon by John.

"…Yes," Sherlock finally answered him, breaking away from the hard gaze he held locked with John's eyes and holding out his hand to the doctor. John handed it over, observing as Sherlock removed one of the grip panels and popped open the bottom of the handle, extracting a small, thin square of metal that folded out to be approximately two centimeters by two centimeters in size. John watched with intrigue as Sherlock pressed his left thumb against the metal and the corner of it briefly flashed first yellow, and then green.

"When the light's yellow, press your finger down," Sherlock explained, passing John the metallic square as he did so. "When it turns green, switch fingers; do it in the order of thumb, pointer, middle, ring and pinky. Make sure you start with your dominant hand first and then just slip it back into the gun when you're done and replace the panel. If it ever blinks red that means it did not get a complete scan and that you will have to scan that finger again before moving onto the next one."

"Right," John said, switching his right thumb out for his pointer finger, concentrating momentarily on getting the cleanest scans recorded as he turned away from Sherlock, who had immediately returned to his computer upon assisting his flatmate. Previous to the night's events, Sherlock had made sure to secure not only Negretto Sylvius' address, but also his colleague, Sam Merton's, just in case something like this had happened. Recently Merton had been staying with Sylvius, of course, to play out the entirety of their theft and plans to sell the diamond with the utmost security and efficiency. Merton expected Sherlock to know his employer's address, so instead he would flee to his own home, which was located outside of London, in a small town near Cardiff. After checking the current time—just past nine—he returned his attention to the online train schedule. There were no spots in the next train from London to Cardiff, which was due to leave at fifteen minutes on the hour. The next one was not until after ten, which meant if Lestrade and his men were to leave now they had a high chance of beating Merton home. Sherlock rapidly typed out the address and added a note of urgency at the end of his text: _You have Sylvius' car confiscated, Merton's not going anywhere until ten. You have an hour. Don't let your men mess up this time! SH_

"Everything all taken care of, then?" John inquired, setting the revolver down next to Sherlock's phone upon the table. Sherlock merely glanced at it while replying:

"Nearly. I've sent Lestrade Merton's runaway address; now all that's left is to wait to hear back from the police upon capture."

"So, essentially, this case is closed, then?"

"It would appear so," Sherlock said dully as he lazily tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Nothing left to do, after all. The diamond's back where it belongs."

"Good," John said emphatically. "That's a relief after tonight."

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John with a small frown. It was clear even to him that his flatmate was still rather upset. "It truly disturbed you that much?"

"_Yes_, Sherlock, it did," John said, flopping into his armchair with a heavy sigh. "I was bloody terrified I was going to…" his voice drifted. John looked away from Sherlock and cleared his throat roughly before finishing: "…going to have to watch you die again. And this time for real."

Another stroke of realization hit Sherlock. John was a soldier, barely back from action for just over three and a half years and frequently suffering from nightmares caused by post-traumatic stress disorder. Of course this would have bothered him. That was one thing that had honestly not occurred to Sherlock while he was away from John, that the doctor's habitual night terrors could have possibly returned upon having to be forced to watch his best friend leap off of a building towards an impending, overtly dramatic death. This event tonight probably served as a bit of a flashback, per se, to John, especially when he could do nothing to stop the oncoming death blow, just as with the Reichenbach Fall.

"…John—"

"How long, Sherlock."

The consulting detective furrowed his brow. "How long, what?"

"How long," John said in a slightly shaking voice, "is it going to take you to realize just how much it would _kill_ me if you died? How many more times will you feel the need to throw yourself into fatal situations to know that, hmm?"

"I do not feel the need to throw myself into dangerous situations—"

"Yes, you do," John said. "Quite often, in fact, for the sake of a case. Sorry, Sherlock, but your job is _not_ worth your life."

"Perhaps to _you_ it isn't," Sherlock pointed out, his frown only deepening.

"Well of course to me, it isn't!" John exclaimed in exasperation. "Obviously I value your life more than you do!"

"I don't understand why that is."

"Because you're my best friend, Sherlock!" John said, rising from his chair and harshly staring down the detective. "You're my best friend and I care too damn much about you, alright? _That's_ why."

"Caring is not an advantage, John, you should not let it pull you down like this," Sherlock began to protest, but was interrupted:

"Yeah, I've heard you little speech about the great disadvantage of emotional attachment, but you know what? I don't have a choice on the matter. I'm not you, I don't have the ability to turn it all off, and quite frankly I don't want to learn that trait, either, or else risk losing you for good."

Sherlock did not trust himself to speak after that last statement. He stared at John with slightly widened eyes, practically feeling the tension thicken with every passing second of silence between the two of them. It was an unfamiliar tenseness, this one between them. Of course being flatmates they have battled it out before, but something in this argument seemed to be particularly unnerving to both parties. This entire conversation, the passionate admonition from John was not what Sherlock anticipated would come of the night's events. Once again, he had managed to severely emotionally wound the one person that had ever tried to care for him.

"I'm really your best friend?"

"Yes," John said, wincing outwardly upon hearing his voice crack. "You know you are."

Sherlock took this in, pondering over the strong sentiment and realizing with regret that his actions had only hurt the man even worse because of it.

"…I'm sorry, John," the consulting detective finally spoke, in a much quieter voice. John huffed, shaking his head and smiling thinly at his flatmate.

"You say that," the doctor informed him, "But I don't think you even know what the words mean. If you're sorry about something, Sherlock, it means that you have recognized that your actions were wrong and are sincerely going to make an effort not to do them again."

"No," Sherlock said, carefully formulating his words. "That's not what an apology means to me."

"Oh," John said sourly. "Then what exactly _does_ an apology mean to you?"

"To me, an apology means that you recognize that what you have done was wrong and has hurt someone you…you care about. That being said, you cannot promise that you won't do them again simply because it was a necessary offense at the time. Instead, you apologize to show the person you are apologizing to that your relationship with them means far too much to allow it to be ruined by your…inconsiderate actions, and that your intentions were only ever good."

"Good intentions," John scoffed. "What do _you_ know about good intentions?"

"More than you would imagine, John."

John opened his mouth to speak again but paused, his mind flashing back to the conversation he and Sherlock had upon being reunited after the fall. Once again, Sherlock risked his life for a case—but this was not the same, surely? This could not be equal to risking one's life for their friend's, could it? This stupid stunt of Sherlock's was merely for the confiscation of a diamond. Yet even as he thought that, though, John knew that Sherlock was reading into it just as much as he was. It was him who was comparing the shoot out to Sherlock's fake suicide, not the consulting detective himself. Damn, when did he become so paranoid; when will this fear finally alleviate. Sherlock was anything but stupid, certainly he would know there was a way out if he was putting himself in unnecessary danger.

Either that, or he just trusted that John would always be there when he needed him to be. Even after telling him to get out of the flat, Sherlock definitely knew for a fact that John was going to stay no matter what.

"You believe your intentions today were good, Sherlock?" John inquired, to which Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow before pointing out to his flatmate:

"I got the diamond back, didn't I?"

John nodded, looking away. "And the fall…?" he asked before he could stop himself, his frown deepening with disapproval now aimed towards himself rather than Sherlock. The doctor already knew what the consulting detective was going to say before he spoke up again, but the intense pause between his question and the inevitable answer made John look back at Sherlock. The detective's face had noticeably fallen at John's follow-up question, and it was not obvious that up until that point Sherlock was fiercely considered the two cases mutually exclusive, and that he had intended to keep them that way. Upon meeting John's eyes, Sherlock answered in a lower tone of voice:

"I saved your life, didn't I?"

Now John felt bad. Damn him for being so fearful. Why did he do this to Sherlock, bring on the guilt just to win an argument? Was it really worth it to see that sorrowful look of self-reproach cross his best friend's face once again, just to remind John that Sherlock was in fact human, that he actually did have a heart within him?

"…You're right," John admitted, bowing his head. "Sorry for bringing that up."

"You were scared, John," Sherlock spoke in understanding, using those four words in place of a simple, less-meaningful 'it's okay.' With a nod, John lifted his head back up, meeting Sherlock's eyes once more before effectively ending their decidedly fervid conversation with a light-hearted offer of: "Tea?"

Sherlock could not help but crack a small smile as he nodded once; leave it to John Watson to singlehandedly see everything fixed with a cup of tea.

-•-• •-•-


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: :)

Forever Avenge

_a Star Trek/Sherlock crossover_

IV

[Stardate 2258: space coordinates ]

Sixty-four of the seventy-two photon torpedoes were now beginning to finally resemble pieces of weaponry rather than a mess of random bits and parts. Khan had to hand it to Carol Marcus, she certainly did work efficiently and accurately when attending to the pieces of the spacecraft, even if she liked to talk far more than he preferred to whilst working. The workers on the innermost dock of the station were also working much more quickly than Khan had anticipated on the _U.S.S. Vengeance_, the hull and main framework already complete after laboring a mere fortnight upon the craft, effectively whetting his hungry lips for the day that he and his crew would be free once more, free to roam and conquer space as much as they desired, free from this god-forsaken planet that had betrayed them one too many times.

As for Carol, she was finding it increasingly difficult to sneak onto the base, but she found that with enough determination and creativity that she will be able to keep doing so until she had completed assisting Khan—he had still refused to tell her his _real_ name, his former, human identity—with the missiles. She still had quite a few tricks up her sleeves to sneak onto the supplies ships, though, so she did not see fit to worry herself over it just yet. More so, she was concerned with the fact that there was so much she still did not know about the man she was assisting. Sure, she knew that he was actually an augment, and that he was not just powerful but tremendously vengeful, but as far as she knew it was all within reason. Still, there were very large gaps in the little bit he had divulged of his past, when he was a detective whose name she still did not know.

"This capacitor goes within the first or second thruster chamber?" Carol inquired, looking up from the torpedo she was hunched over towards Khan. The human augment merely glanced over from where he was working and briefly instructed:

"Second."

"You know," Carol began to reason with him, "This would all go a lot faster if I could just be allowed to see the blueprints for myself—"

"No."

Of course not. Two weeks passed and Khan still will not allow any pair of eyes other than his own to look upon his precious blueprints. Carol was beginning to suspect that she really was unknowingly assisting him in some massive coup against Starfleet and the Federation. She was far from stupid; she knew that it was not a smart move to trust this man who had openly admitted to killing and conquering relentlessly in the past. But there was just something more, especially upon finding out that he has an entire lifetime hidden within him that nobody had bothered to inquire about until now, until she began to talk to him. But even when talking about that he was very closed-off. Carol could not get the augment to speak much about his path all at once. Over the course of their fortnight together, she had barely been able to find out exactly what his profession entailed, where he got his cases from, and a little bit about his flatmate. Everything she had been told was cryptic at best, the important details left out almost always whenever he saw fit on rare occasion to regale her with a fantastic tale of past cases and adventures.

After a good twenty minutes of silent working, Carol looked across the room at Khan, wondering if she would be able to get him to talk today. "…Tell me more about your flatmate, John," she began suggestively.

At the very mention of John Watson, Khan's demeanor visibly altered. He continued to stare straight ahead into the computer screen, up at his blueprints, without truly seeing them anymore. Instead, all he could see were John's deep, empathetic blue eyes staring down lovingly at him. There was nothing he missed more than those eyes, how they could so miraculously convey numerous emotions at the same time in perfect tandem without dropping an ounce of sincerity towards Sherlock whilst doing so.

"What do you want to know?" Khan inquired, turning away from his computer screen to regard Carol's expression wholly. Carol shrugged.

"Anything," she offered. "I mean, you spoke very highly of him the few times you've mentioned his name."

"Yes, with good reason."

"Well, I want to know more about this man that seemed to capture your heart."

Khan narrowed his eyes at Carol, speculating her inquiring expression sternly. Suddenly, she realized what she had inadvertently insinuated with her last statement.

"Oh, gosh," she stuttered. "I'm not saying—I didn't mean to make that sound like you two—"

"No, it's…" Khan looked away from her. "…It's fine."

_You would not be the first to assume that before actually knowing the truth._

Even as he thought that, though, Khan once again could not help but observe the irony of Carol's presumed mistake.

"Where do I even begin," he whispered, gripping at the edge of one of the long, metallic tables that held two of the pre-formed weapons upon it, relishing in the coolness of the metal beneath his palm.

"Well, you've told me how you two met, and what he did as a profession," Carol said, thinking back upon what all Khan had divulged of John so far. "Oh, and also that he saved your life the very first case you two worked on together."

Khan's lips twitched slightly at the memory, though he refused to allow himself to smile.

"That was not the only time he saved me," he spoke quietly in deference. "Just in being there for me, being a part of my life…that is what saved me."

He turned to look Carol in the eye.

"As I said before, I was not a very well-liked man, and with good reason, I'm afraid. I referred to myself as a high-functioning sociopath, though many would correct me with the word _psychopath_. Either way, that did not leave much room for friends in between my Work and my social issues. Admittedly, when Mike Stamford introduced me to John I did not think for a second that even _if_ he agreed to get into a flatshare with me that it would last very long. He seemed friendly, tolerable and kind—not the kind of man that can usually stand my insufferableness. Yet he did not only stand it, but cooperated with it quite well, even managing to affect many of my bad habits and begin to re-shape them…began to re-shape _me_."

-•-• •-•-

[Stardate 2015,7: London]

_The river was a dark, crimson red in color—but it was always like that, wasn't it? As long as he could remember the red-tinted sand would stain the water that sickly, blood-like color, despite the fact that any actual desert would not be so dramatically colored, nor would it have such a large body of water to drink from...if that blood-tinted water was even drinkable, that is. It was all in his mind—_an illusion, _as Sherlock would call it, just as he named his suicide—but it was all so real nonetheless. Just as real and familiar as the helicopters overhead were; just as real as his broken, bloodied shoulder wound was to him now. John could practically feel the bullet still inside of him, though he knew for a fact that it had merely passed straight through his shoulder blade as if the bone were made of paper, the traumatizing wound partially blinding him through pain and blood loss as he fell first to his knees, and then on his side, cradling his shoulder, feeling with terror his blood squeeze through his shaking fingers struggling to apply pressure to the wound. As he did with his fellow comrades and soldiers, he attempted to revert back to his medical training, oddly calm despite the fact that most of his potential help was lying dead around him. Just as he was forcing himself to sit up straight and try to wrap the wound, however, the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked to fire filled his ears. He turned to face the direction of the sound with trepidation, sure that the click was to be the last thing he heard, and that the inner barrel of the gun was to be the last thing he ever saw…_

_John did not expect the last man that he would ever see—his murderer—would just so happen to be Sherlock Holmes. His chest constricted as he stared into those bright, calculating eyes for what he was sure to be the last time. Betrayal hit like the bitterest of winds, and he found himself looking at his flatmate—his best friend—with pleading eyes…not particularly the expression he wished to be remembered for but the only one he could manage. Sherlock's coat flapped in the heated breeze, the sand rising up and swirling around his long legs like a demonic veil. If John squinted enough, he could possibly mistake the detective to be a mirage, to be something that his asphyxiated, heat-addled mind had come up with. But he knew the truth, even here in the hour of his foreboding death; Sherlock Holmes was standing before him with a gun in his hand, clear as day. He heard himself whisper…"Please, God. Let me live…" before he closed his eyes, breathing shallowly his last breaths before…_

_CLICK._

_John hesitantly opened one eye to see Sherlock's cold, unfathomable expression had melted into one of his rare but genuinely warm smiles._

"_Did you really think I'd sink so low as to let my blogger die?" he said in that low, familiar voice that John could not help but to take comfort in. The soldier watched with wide, hopeful eyes as the ending of his nightmare eluded into the ending of a relieving dream; Sherlock tossed the gun to the ground and steadily walked towards John. He stopped right in front of where he lay and outstretched his hand, reaching for the army doctor. John struggled a bit but managed to painfully lift his undamaged arm up to reach for Sherlock as well…_

_Just as he had managed to grasp onto the detective's hand, however, a bombshell dropped not thirty yards away from them, shards of debris from the shell littering the air. John knew to duck and tried shouting at Sherlock to do the same…but his voice was clogged with sand and agony…he continued to grasp Sherlock's hand as he fell to the ground, a distinct shard of metal protruding from his skull, right into his temporal lobe…John choked back a sob as he checked his best friend's—his savior's—pulse and found for the second time in his life that his heart had already stopped beating…_

John's deep, slightly insipid blue eyes shot open in an instant as he clutched at his sheets, trying to control his rapidly accelerated breathing and heart rate. Remnants of the nightmare pierced the forefront of his mind, making it extremely difficult to recall his exhaustion and even begin to think about going back to sleep, so he sat up, running his hands roughly through his hair in order to distract and clear his whirring mind. The sense of utter despair his dream had brought upon him was barely beginning to fade, but the more John told himself that it was fiction, that Sherlock had not actually died, the easier it was becoming to breathe normally. He brought his hands back down to his face, closing his eyes and resting his forehead into his clammy palms, still taking deep breaths to get his heart beating normally again. He silently cursed his anxiety for the umpteenth time; he was doing so well, after all. Once Sherlock had returned his nightmares had all but dissipated. But the sheer startlement of almost being forced to watch the detective's life be taken away brought them back on. He sighed heavily, dropping his hands from his face as he stared at the wall across from him and his bed. John was really beginning to see just how much Sherlock meant to him. If it took only the mere prospect of the man's death to send John spiraling back into his nightmares, how was he going to deal with the Work ever again? He was so frustratingly unstable, had been since Sherlock's suicide, and he hated himself for it, hated that the military man within him was not as hard-built as his soldier self actually was. He could not recall ever acting upon fear in the battlefield, after all—why could he not exhibit the same amount of control and bravery in slumber?

_Because it's just my subconscious at work, not my actual self_, John thought, recalling what his therapist had told him at one time with yet another disgusted shake of the head. With a sigh, he threw the covers off of himself, resolving to make a warm cup of tea instead of attempting to fall back asleep just yet.

John stepped as quietly as he could down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky step right at the top in order to keep from awakening Sherlock. The storm outside was still thundering on, the rain falling just as hard if not harder than earlier that night. He maneuvered his way through the dark, rain-shadow splattered living area, not wanting to turn any lights on unless he absolutely had to. When he reached the kitchen, he fumbled around the counter until his hands found the stove. The stove light came on with a soft _click_ that of course sounded twenty times louder than it actually was in the quietness of the flat. John glanced back in the direction of Sherlock's slightly ajar bedroom door briefly as he put the kettle to boil, grabbing a mug from the cupboard and leaning against the counter with a small yawn. He could still hear the gunshots from the dream, and he swallowed to keep from remembering too much, particularly the part when Sherlock died in his grasp…

He started when he sensed movement coming from the living room across from where he stood. John squinted in the darkness, suddenly wide-awake and on high-alert should he find a complete stranger sitting idly upon his sofa with a gun or a knife at hand, just waiting for either him or Sherlock to emerge from their bedrooms. John pressed his lips, his eyes stern and unblinkingly staring where he knew the couch sat as he flipped the light switch on.

"…Sherlock?"

"Mmm…?" came the drowsy baritone reply, Sherlock slowly blinking himself awake as he un-tucked his arm from underneath his body and stretched upwards, the sleeves of his dressing gown loosely sliding down his forearms as he did so.

"You alright?" John asked him concernedly, wondering why on Earth the man was sleeping on the sofa rather than in his bed.

"Couldn't sleep," Sherlock muttered, rubbing his eyes as he sat up. "Came out here to think."

John knitted his brows together and opened his mouth to inquire as to why Sherlock could not sleep just when the water kettle beeped softly behind him. He turned to tend to it, pulling a second mug out of the cabinet for the detective now that he knew he was awake. Upon peering at the clock, he could see that it was just past four in the morning and groaned inwardly at the knowledge that he had to get up to go to work in three hours.

"Nightmare?" Sherlock inquired, accepting a steaming mug from John.

"Yeah," John said, electing to stand instead of joining Sherlock on the sofa, in case the man wanted to stretch his legs out once again in a moment or so. He took a small sip of his tea before inquiring of Sherlock: "Why couldn't you sleep?"

"Don't know," Sherlock said, frowning a frown against the lip of his mug that stated that he clearly did in fact know why. When he looked back up at John, he could tell immediately that the man did not buy his lazy excuse and sighed heavily and exhaustedly. "I had too much on my mind," he admitted.

"About the case?" John asked curiously, to which Sherlock shook his head, resting his warm mug upon his leg as he frowned slightly to himself.

"No, Lestrade texted four and a half hours ago, saying that he got Sam Merton secured and in custody."

John waited for him to continue, searching his facial expression for any clues to what could be bothering him and finding nothing. "What about, then, if you don't mind me asking," he asked finally.

Sherlock looked up at his with a calculating look.

"You know what about," Sherlock said firmly, taking John by surprise. "How could you not?"

John blinked in surprise at that statement.

"You do this a lot," the doctor commented with a slight frown. "Assume I know something—or rather, assume I _should_ know something and leave me decidedly in the dark rather than just up and saying it instead. Wastes a lot of time, doing that," he finished matter-of-factly as he lifted his mug back up to his mouth.

"But I can tell you've noticed it as well, John," Sherlock said in all seriousness. John cocked his head to the side.

"Noticed what?"

"The tension."

John raised an eyebrow. "Ok," he said slowly, looking aimlessly at the detective. "Now I _really_ don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock."

"I have to spell this out to you, don't I?" Sherlock said in exasperation, narrowing his eyes. "If only you'd just _think_."

"Well," John said, glancing behind him at the clock. "To be fair, it is kind of four-sixteen in the morning, y'know."

"And yet you seem to be more than coherent enough to make two perfectly good mugs of tea," Sherlock pointed out, to which John shrugged, replying with an expression of pure vexation. He complied and attempted to search his mind for an instance when Sherlock seemed to have acted in a non-Sherlockian way, tried to recall when the man last hesitated and coming up empty-handed. Only an event like that would spring up any unusual tension up, surely, for everything else seemed all fine to John. He blinked, trying to fully awaken his sleep-addled mind as he took another long draw of tea. Still nothing, though; he honestly had no idea what Sherlock could possibly be so concerned about.

"Sherlock," John said finally, setting his half-empty mug down upon the table. He stood back up and looked right at Sherlock, who looked at him with what could only be described as an almost hopeful expression. John sighed:

"You're going to have to spell it out for me; I can't think of anything."

"I did spell it out for you John," Sherlock said with a shake of his head. "The tension is what's keeping me up. Can't you feel it?"

John furrowed his brow, to which Sherlock huffed at in frustration. He frowned at the ground as he clarified: "The tension between _us_."

This caught John slightly by surprise. "I wasn't aware of any, actually…I thought we were alright," he said in honest confusion. Sherlock blinked.

"Are we really, though, I mean."

"Why wouldn't we be?" John asked. "Sherlock, I've forgiven you a long time ago for faking your suicide; if that's what this is about—"

"That's not at all what this is about, John," Sherlock said, his voice suddenly raised slightly as he stood from his spot on the sofa and set his mug down upon the table next to John's. "_This_ is what I'm talking about," the detective stated, walking up to John and taking his wrist into his hand, pressing his thumb against the man's translucent veins to feel his pulse. John stood silently, staring at Sherlock's face as his expression slowly contorted from calculating to solemnly placate. His hand dropped back to his side when Sherlock relinquished him and took a step back, shifting his eyes from John's wrist up to his face.

"What—" John began to ask confusedly, but Sherlock had already begun to answer:

"Elevated heartbeat," he stated. "Dilated pupils—but of course, that could just be due to your exhaustion. And I suppose your heart rate could still be faster than normalcy because of your recent nightmare, but that's highly unlikely, don't you think?"

John stared at Sherlock, trying to understand if he was assuming what he thought he was assuming of him. True, he could feel his own heart begin to race upon contact with Sherlock, but that had happened before, often enough that he had thought nothing of it. After all, it was rather rare for Sherlock to be quite so touchy with anyone who was not dead, so any kind of contact with him would come as a bit of a surprise to John. But what was that with his pupils…?

"I'm glad you woke up while I was down here," Sherlock said, turning away from John as he thought about the data he had just collected. "I needed to test my theory, to make doubly sure that it was not just me. That's what was bothering me so much, all of these unanswered questions, and of course, the fact that I am so unfamiliar with _this_ kind of thing—"

"_What_ kind of thing?" John said, a little louder than he had meant to. He cleared his throat, then continued at a normal volume:

"Sherlock, what the hell are you referring to?"

The detective turned and knew upon just one look at his flatmate's expression that he needed more answers than that. "…I don't really know how to explain this one, honestly," he admitted with a small frown. "I'm not very familiar with emotional detailing, as you know; I've always been more about the logic and science of a situation. This is admittedly a bit out of my area of expertise."

"Are you saying…?" John began to ask but closed his mouth, looking at Sherlock and silently praying that he could simply read the question from his expression. Of course, that was not going to be the case, though.

"Am I saying, what?"

John blinked.

"Are you saying that this tension your feeling," he began, thinking over his words carefully before finishing, "…that I'm feeling it too, unknowingly?"

"Yes."

"Then what is it?" John asked, suddenly unsure of whether or not he truly wanted to know. Sherlock met John's eye:

"…I don't know anymore," Sherlock confessed annoyedly, looking away. "I though it to be the beginnings of…I don't know…"

"But, that thing with my pupils—them being, what, dilated?" he said in confusion. "What was that about?"

"You're a medical man; you know of several reasons and instances that could cause that kind of involuntary reaction. There is one in specific that I was focusing upon, however. Your pupils dilate when you see the person you are attracted to," Sherlock recited factually, in a rush of breath, looking at John but not truly seeing him as he did so due to his strictly logical focus from deep within his mind. After feeling so unsure for too long and too uncomfortable of an amount of time, Sherlock clung to this while he still could; a sure-fire, certain explanation of fact. "Because the nervous system controls the muscles of the irises, the response of the nervous system to different stimuli results in involuntary pupil dilation. Another commonly cited reason the pupils dilate is in response to excitement or sexual arousal. When a person sees something or someone they find very attractive, their eyes may dilate."

John's eyes widened ever-so-slightly as he realized what Sherlock had realized, why Sherlock Holmes was suddenly so unsure of his own deductions.

"You think I'm beginning to have feelings for you," he said quietly, the words tasting harshly acidic upon his tongue as his stomach churned at the mere thought. Something clicked in his brain as he said it though, a part of him having to wonder if a genius mind like Sherlock's suspected such a thing…could it possibly have a semblance of truth? Could he really be…? He supposed it would make logical sense to Sherlock in order for him to have even brought it up, but there simply was no way that was it, was there? He had never seen Sherlock as more of a friend…he would have never considered such a thing before…he watched as Sherlock bowed his head and pressed his lips together tightly.

"Not just you," he said equally as faintly. John stared at him, unbelieving of what he was hearing. He suddenly needed to sit down but found himself unable to move, sheer shock nailing his feet to the ground in front of Sherlock. The consulting detective turned quickly, matching him with a piercing stare of his own, sensing John's uncertainty over the hypothesis he had presented to him. Both of them were obviously waiting for the other to speak first; John ended up being the one to cut through the stone of silence:

"Sherlock, that's not possible," he reasoned. "I'm straight, remember? I mean. I've never been sexually attracted to a man in my life, and that's not something that just up and changes over night, y'know."

"That's the thing," Sherlock replied dully. "I _don't_ know. You may have never felt something for a man before, but I've never felt something for _anyone_ before. I've no idea what it's supposed to feel like, John…I could be completely mistaking this for something else for all we know."

"You've never felt for someone romantically before, man or woman?" John asked shockedly, to which his flatmate firmly shook his head.

"Nope." Sherlock gritted his teeth together. "_Damn_. I hate not knowing something. It's infuriating, how can you stand it all the time?"

"Ignorance is bliss," John muttered, stooping to grab his tea back up from the table.

"Dull."

"You would say that."

"You're changing the subject, John."

"Do you blame me?" John demanded, looking back at Sherlock. "I mean, whatever you've just said about my heart rate and my pupils—how long has that been going on now without my knowledge?"

"How long has it been happening to _me_ or _you_?" Sherlock asked in clarification. John pondered, and then shrugged:

"Both."

"I started noticing it in myself merely three weeks after I moved back in," the detective revealed. "I'm not sure how long it's been going on with you, of course, but I started noticing it about a month or so after I noticed it occurring within myself."

"So for a while now," John said after rapidly calculating that they had been back in 221B Baker Street for a good seven months. Sherlock nodded in affirmation, lifting his mug back up to his lips and pacing away from John as his mind whirred on, searching for a solid explanation to this mess he found himself in. John himself looked like he was seriously trying to figure something out for himself, and eventually his frustrated display of shaking his head pulled Sherlock away from his thoughts.

"What is it," he asked John, facing out the window.

"I just..." John began, and then paused to take a deep breath. "I care deeply for you Sherlock; you _know_ I do." He paused for another moment, and then began again, speaking slower as more and more of a realization hit him from deep within. "…In fact, I think I care for you more than I ever have cared for any girl I've gone out with, if I'm being completely honest here."

"Really," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes speculatively.

"Really," John confirmed, sighing again, "Which is probably why I haven't been able to hold a steady relationship for quite some time now, since women don't typically like being held second to their partner's flatmates. But I can't…I don't know what that means, to be honest. It's like I said, I know I'm straight…but _shite_—what does it mean if a straight man starts caring for another man in this way?"

"This is equally as frustrating to you as it is to me," Sherlock realized, turning away from the window to look back at John. John showed him his hands, uplifted in defeat.

"You have no idea," the doctor said, collapsing onto the couch at last with a huff. "I guess I have been feeling this elephant in the room recently, but I've just been discrediting it, thinking it was all in my head—"

"When I just so happened to be thinking the same thing," Sherlock finished, to which John nodded, folding his hands together in his lap with great thoughtfulness.

The two of them were silent for a long expanse of time, both of them unbelieving of the sudden discovery they had just made about one another's feelings for each other. Both of them had always known they were close—possibly even unusually close, or else why would everyone automatically assume they were a couple right there on the spot—but before that night neither of them had actually seriously considered the thought fully. It had always seemed like a stupid, annoying insinuation to John, whenever people thought they were so blatantly gay for each other. He was very firm in his heterosexuality, always had been as well. Never before had he had trouble getting women; his only problem was Sherlock, who always managed to make his girlfriends feel either unwelcome or unwanted with his constant interfering. But despite that he had always stayed with Sherlock, valuing their friendship over any other relationship he may have begun to have.

As for Sherlock…he was completely unfamiliar with the pressure he could now feel deep within his chest cavity, and he was not sure whether or not he liked it. It got worse whenever he turned to meet John's eyes, which only added more to his suspicions and likewise. It was frustrating, how little he knew of relationships and how they began. Even if he was confident that his feelings were what he thought they were, though, Sherlock knew this conversation would still be equally as uneasy as it had turned out to be, simply because John was completely correct in saying that he was absolutely straight. It all suddenly felt so much less absolute, however—even John had a seed of doubt planted within his mind, and once an idea is planted, Sherlock knew more than anyone that there was nothing anybody could do but watch it grow. John had already admitted to caring deeply and unfazed for Sherlock, and Sherlock did not have to ask himself whether or not he felt the same amount of respect and care for John. After all, he jumped off of a building for him, and he would easily do it again if he had to. If he had no other choice, Sherlock knew he would've gone through with the suicide, fake or not faked…which was more than enough certainty for him to go by, he decided at last with finality.

"…John," he spoke, his dressing gown swishing behind him as he turned completely away from the window and walked over to set his mug down and stand by where John now sat upon the couch. When he looked up at him, Sherlock outstretched his hand. "I wish to try an experiment," he explained, meeting his eyes. When John did not move, he pointedly softened his expression and spoke low:

"Trust me."

Still obviously hesitant, John obliged his flatmate and placed his hand in his, rising from the sofa and refusing to break eye contact with Sherlock. The detective took a deep, steadying breath and offered John a small, warm smile as he reached out and took the man's other hand within his as well. "Do you trust me?" he asked again, softly. John swallowed, already sensing where this was inevitably going as he felt his stomach churn once more in anticipation. He paused, taking time to straighten out his hammering thoughts before giving Sherlock his final answer. What he truly up for this kind of a…experiment, as Sherlock referred to it as? John looked down at his hands, still gripped in Sherlock's, and found that he immediately relaxed a bit when he felt the detective give them a small squeeze. He returned his gaze back to Sherlock's light, searching eyes, finding comfort in their familiar stare as he finally whispered: "…Yes."

Sherlock nodded unperceptively—mostly to himself—pressing his lips together as he set up his mind for his next step, finding that he was suddenly extremely grateful for the previous research he had done on this entire subject matter of relationships and what one does when in one. He kept his eyes locked on John's, staring deeply into his eyes, darkened due to his heavily dilated pupils as he slowly tilted his head downwards. His eyes fluttered closed on their own accord, and he felt his puckered lips meet the softness of John's, suddenly extremely aware of not only their incredibly close proximity but of the warm, comforting heat he could feel rising to John's flushing face. Sherlock knew enough to keep it brief for John's repose, pulling away from the man with a tiny, barely audible smack. He opened his eyes and looked back at John, searching his face for any displays or emotional reactions through the slight dazed fog that had slipped into his mind from the kiss.

John seemed to be suffering from the same haziness as he slowly re-opened his eyes, staring straight ahead at Sherlock's lips rather than up into his pupils. All previous tension had been released from his body, and he felt his arms drop slackly to his sides when Sherlock released his hands. Slowly and bewilderedly, he lifted a hand to his mouth, lightly brushing his fingers across his lips. He finally looked up into Sherlock's eyes as he spoke quietly in light surprise: "Your lips are soft."

Sherlock blinked, unsure of how to respond to the comment. "Why wouldn't they be?" he finally scrutinized, to which John meekly replied:

"…I don't know." He lowered his gaze back to the detective's lips, finding himself to be oddly and quite suddenly transfixed with their definite Cupid's bow shape. "I suppose I didn't…expect that, y'know."

"Because I'm a man," Sherlock said in understanding, watching in quiet amusement as John's blush deepened exponentially. To John's credit, though, Sherlock could tell that he was successfully attempting to take all thoughts of a specific sexuality out of his mind in order to pursue accurate results, understanding that this was as much of an experiment for him as well as Sherlock.

"You're waiting for me to say something," John whispered to himself in realization. Sherlock lifted his head slightly in curiosity.

"Yes," he responded to John's quiet, out-spoken thoughts, forcing him out of his momentary stupor to look back up into his face.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to tell you, though."

"Tell me…how you feel," Sherlock said carefully, taking the man's hands in his own once again and brushing his thumb across his wrist to take his pulse once more. He glanced up behind John's head at the analog clock hanging on the wall behind them, staring intently at the second hand…_120 bpm. Interesting._

"Exhausted," John admitted, also making to look behind him to read the clock. Sherlock huffed, tilting his head back in utter annoyance:

"_John_…"

"Just saying," the doctor sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment as he took a deep breath to attempt to steady his heart rate, knowing with exposal that Sherlock could feel it beneath his fingertips. "Not uncomfortable, since I know that's what you're concerned mostly about…"

"Good," Sherlock encouraged him with a nod.

"And…" John stared back up at Sherlock's lips, suddenly feeling an urge to press his own up against their tantalizing plumpness—_wait. What?_

"I'm so confused," John breathed in defeat. "I don't know what's going on, and I'm not sure—"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, gripping at the man's arms as he tried to calm him down, feeling him tense up for a split second and then decidedly relax completely in his grasp. "Answer me just one thing and then I'll leave this be for the night, okay?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock, it's—"

"Don't say it's fine," Sherlock muttered exasperatedly. "You know how I am, I demand answers. Only when I know all I must know will it be fine."

John looked him in the eye.

"Then what do you want to know, Sherlock?"

Sherlock loosened his grip upon John.

"Do you want to kiss me again…?" he frowned to himself and looked away for a moment, correcting his question before John answered: "Would that be something that would feel…_right_ to you?"

John swallowed nervously—more nervous about the definitive and fervent _god, yes_ screaming dramatically within his unsettled mind than about actually answering Sherlock. If he admitted the truth to him, what would that mean? Would Sherlock Holmes, the most disconnected man John had ever known in his entire life suddenly want a relationship with him, just like that? And…is that what he wanted as well? He had not considered such a thing before this, but now it all seemed within his grasp, right there and easy to picture clearly within the forefront of his mind. It suddenly did not matter whether or not Sherlock was a man, for he was _Sherlock_. John had previously admitted that he cared for the consulting detective more than he had ever cared for anybody before throughout his entire life—an admittance even John could not fathom until he was forced to watch the man hurl himself down to his death. _God, yes_, he thought again upon asking himself whether or not he could see himself in a serious, romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

"John?" Sherlock prodded him out of his thoughtful stupor. John met his eyes, setting his face in a rather determined expression when he finally responded.

"Yes."

Sherlock stared at him, reading him with that analytical look of his before finally nodding, accepting that John was in fact speaking the truth.

"Ok then." He released the doctor then and took a step back, giving him back his personal space. "That's all I need to know, John."

John narrowed his eyes at the detective, trying to read his decidedly unfathomable face.

"You sure?"

Sherlock shrugged, looking back at John as he yawned tiredly. "You need your sleep, though. I've bothered you enough for tonight."

"This morning, you mean," John said, offering Sherlock a small grin. Sherlock looked fixedly at him, trying to come up with the correct comeback to that light-hearted joke and instead blurting out the one thing that had been at the forefront of his mind during their entire conversation:

"I think we would be good together, John."

The detective watched as John's grin slowly melted into a definite frown of concern and confusion.

"We _are_ good together," the doctor pointed out. "We make a fantastic team, Sherlock, in case you've forgotten—"

"I don't mean as a team," Sherlock said impatiently. "I mean _us_. _Together_."

John gaped at the man; the air around them suddenly felt deathly still and choking. "Are you saying what I think you're saying…?"

"For god's sake, John," Sherlock said, loudly exasperated. "What do you think I've been trying to say all night? We would be good together, as a couple, as…as…oh, whatever you sort call it."

"'You sort?'"

"You know," Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose. "_Normal_ people."

"Ah," John said, trying not to be insulted and failing miserably.

"Think about it," Sherlock hissed, licking his lips as his stare bored into John's face. "As a unit, we would be strong. Unbreakable. Our personalities and strengths complement each other perfectly."

"Strengths?" John remarked sarcastically. "I wasn't aware I had any."

Sherlock gave John an exhausted look.

"_John_," Sherlock sighed. "Your strengths simply lie elsewhere from mine. You are the emotionally-driven one out of the two of us, the one who relies on empathy to get you through life. But with me, you do not have any weaknesses. Neither of us does when we're with one another."

"But I thought you said caring for someone won't help you save them," John pointed out. "I recall you telling me that sentiment is a weakness. A chemical defect found in the losing side? How is my caring now suddenly a strength?"

"Recent events have altered that opinion. Now I have realized that caring, though however much of a disadvantage it may be," Sherlock said dejectedly, "is essential…"

He looked downwards, unable to meet John's eyes as he admitted: "I only realized that after finding out I was almost unable to save you. I've finally come to terms with the fact that I have cared despite my stoic solemnity, but I know also that I will never be able to carry that as a strength of mine."

Sherlock met John's eyes again.

"That's where you come in, John," he said, uttering his flatmate's name fondly. "I alone am mostly made up of logic. Facts. Evidence and puzzles. You, on the other hand, are built upon empathy and morals. Put those two pieces together—the Mind and the Heart—and you've got the unfathomable solidity of a foolproof personality. In layman's terms, opposites attract. "

Sherlock smiled determinedly down at John.

"'The Mind and The Heart,'" he whispered again. He paused before continuing, allowing those words not only to sink into John's mind but into his own, savoring the sweet taste they left upon his lips as he lifted his chin. "That's what we would be; the two most vital organs of the human anatomy, and the most important ones in the making of a personality."

John blinked, unable to sheath his utter amusement. Only Sherlock Holmes could find a way to define a romantic affiliation with someone through strictly logical terms.

"We have a title now, eh?" John said, thinking through the idea of playing the part of the Heart in Sherlock's life. He was practically doing so already, he figured after a moment of thought; he was the one person who could manage to keep the man morally grounded, after all. And then Sherlock…John could not even begin to describe the effect Sherlock's mind had upon his life. John's entire way of looking at the world was altered from his time with the man.

"Only if you wish for us to be a 'we,'" Sherlock reminded him. "Then yes, we will take on that personal title. Well, more of a visual representation for the sake of this explanation. But it could last, John, what we've got…and you know it could. This would not be a wasted effort on either of our parts, you cannot deny that. Together we would be unbelievably cohesive."

"You keep saying that," John pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, because I want you to know that I'm right," Sherlock said plainly.

"Well, of course I know you're right," John admitted. "We already are cohesive as flatmates—as friends."

"And we would only strengthen our bond with one another by taking this relationship to a greater level," Sherlock pointed out.

John honestly could not believe what was happening here. Sherlock was trying to convince him to be in a romantic relationship with him. The very same man who had very firmly stated their first night together that anything outside of the Work was transport—that he was _married_ _to his work_—was now changing his brilliant mind completely upon the matter. Not just for anyone though, that was easy enough to see; just for John, only for his flatmate, his one and only friend. If he could do that, surely John could forgo all of his technicalities over his sexual orientation. Even John had to admit to himself that he rather enjoyed the brief kiss he had just shared with Sherlock, even though the man was, well, a man. He wondered over how easily one could switch teams, per se, when their heart was set on a specific person. Admittedly enough, John could not even attempt to dissuade Sherlock of his emotional calculations, because John felt the same way about everything that was said. They _would_ be fantastic together—_unbreakable. Unstoppable. Incredibly cohesive as a romantic unit_. It was clear that John's symbol in Sherlock's mental screenplay of their relationship was beginning to take over; the doctor knew that in the end his heart would win this battle of wits, despite any doubts he may or may not have over the subject.

It truly was only logical that he was with Sherlock.

"Have you ever done this before, Sherlock?" John inquired quietly of his flatmate, to which the detective bided the doctor's expression, pressing his lips together as he pondered the correct way to answer the rather ambiguous question.

"Manipulated you with facts and figures so truthful that they could be used in a court of law? Yes," Sherlock said, then sighed. "Have I ever been involved in a committed relationship before? No."

"Then you have no idea what you're getting yourself into," John stated, looking Sherlock in the face.

"Neither do you, though," Sherlock pointed out, to which John frowned.

"I've had many relationships in the past, Sherlock—"

"But none with a _man_," Sherlock stated with finality. John opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it when he realized he had nothing to rebuke Sherlock with after all.

"You're just as clueless as I am in this sense, John," Sherlock spoke, breaking the silence. "I know that you know how to handle the emotional part of any kind of relationship far better than I ever will, that is one aspect to consider. But the physical aspect to a relationship—both of us would have to learn from each other on that subject. Your knowledge will only go so far when dealing with a lover of the opposite gender."

"I know that," John huffed, looking away. "Why do you think I'm so bloody hesitant about this?"

"You shouldn't be, though," Sherlock reasoned. "You and I can work that bit out easily, the way we work everything else out. Once again, _cohesion_."

"You really want this," John said in disbelief, turning back to stare into Sherlock's eyes with frank uncertainty. "Don't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said in a low voice, his tone completely clear of any and all hesitation, which caught John even more off-guard. "I've put much thought into this, John…" He sighed, still meeting the doctor's dark blue eyes as he formulated the right words to say. "…I know how much you care about me; now I want you to realize and know just how much I care for you."

John had never before seen Sherlock look so…_humane_; it was such a pleasant shock to him, though, realizing that this man really could feel after all. He knew everything had changed after the Reichenbach Fall, when the detective had finally realized that he really did have many people who cared about him, that he was never alone in the slightest. And of course John's outlook upon the detective had changed quite a bit as well; after thinking for so long that he was never going to see the man again, having him back in his life now was possibly the most cherished thing to him now, hence the reason why he was even more protective over his best friend than before. Everything really was different; far more emotionally driven, and John suddenly felt incredibly stupid for not seeing this coming from the moment Sherlock came back to him.

"We could make this work," he spoke slowly, not quite looking straight into Sherlock's eyes as the gears in his head turned, carefully examining all that had been thrown into their sleep-addled banks in the past half-hour. Sherlock nodded once:

"I know we could. _You_ know we could."

"We would work together, as a couple."

"Yes…"

"I could see myself with you…"

Sherlock could not keep the corner of his mouth from twitching up in pleasure at this definite confession of realization from John. "You could?" he inquired, keeping as much hopefulness out of his voice as possible. John finally met his eyes, and Sherlock felt a lump catch in his throat when his flatmate offered him a small, genuine smile.

"Yes," John concurred, taking three steps and effectively closing the distance between the two of them in doing so. "You're right, as usual…it makes complete sense, this," he whispered, gesturing between the two of them. "_Us._"

John laughed once softly, looking down as Sherlock carefully knitted his brows together in slight confusion. "What?"

"It's just," John began, grinning back at Sherlock and shrugging. "We're practically a couple already, y'know. We live together; we go everywhere together…all that's really missing is stuff like this."

Sherlock was about to inquire as to what 'this' was when John raised a hand to Sherlock's face, cupping his cheek gently within his palm. The detective stared into John's eyes, reading all sorts of resolve and determination within the orbs—resolves to go through with this, to become Sherlock's partner, and determination to make this work. _Everything is already making so much more sense_, John thought as he brushed his thumb across Sherlock's cheek. This all felt so right, like this physical contact was something that had been there all along but had simply lain dormant within the two of them, just waiting for the proper breaking point to make them realize their slowness. With this newfound connection, their relationship was going to become more complete and sound than any John had ever been a part of before. He found himself melting a bit when Sherlock offered him one of his subtle smiles, the kind that truly met his eyes but lacked the snide overconfidence of his usual self. Raising his other hand up to hold Sherlock's face within his gentle grasp, John closed his eyes and easily found himself moving into the detective and meeting his soft lips once more. He allowed himself to linger there for a moment, eyes still closed before finally pulling away slowly. As he did so, he lifted his head back up to gage Sherlock's reaction and felt himself give into a small smile that practically mirrored the one upon Sherlock's own face. The final pieces of the puzzle finally fell through for the two of them as they stood there, John still gently touching Sherlock's face as they looked one another in the eyes. They could easily get used to this—no—they _would_ get used to this. It was so easy to John, showing this form of strong affection to Sherlock, even despite the fact that he was not a woman. Just like that it did not matter anymore, because Sherlock was the one exception, he realized, and he could not have wanted anyone else more in that moment than Sherlock Holmes.

"…Yes," John spoke quietly. "This will work just fine, I think."

Sherlock's smile grew, and he lifted a hand to cover one of John's still resting upon his face, turning his head slightly and brushing his lips across his partner's fingertips. _Yes_, he thought with silent excitement. _I know that we will._

-•-• •-•-


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Enjoy this happy chapter, because the next one is gonna hurt... T.T

Forever Avenge

_a Star Trek/Sherlock crossover_

V

[Stardate 2015,7: London]

Sherlock awakened at three in the afternoon the following day, squinting at the dim afternoon light. At least it was not raining as it was last night, or else he would have been even more reluctant to rise. Now without a case, the detective did not feel bad for oversleeping for once since he had not properly done so—despite John's chastising—in the past three days. His growling stomach was something he was also going to tend to today, after fasting for the case of the missing diamond. Not just yet, though, for his bed was still a bit too comfortable to leave at the moment. Instead, he lay back upon his pillow, reaching over to his bedside table and grabbing his phone as he did so to see if there was any word from Lestrade over a new case already. In fact there was a voicemail from the DI, but not one that Sherlock wanted; rather than over a case, the officer had informed Sherlock that the press wanted to release a statement from him over the capture of the jewel thief Negretto Sylvius. Sherlock scoffed as he lazily tossed the mobile back onto its table without bothering to reply to Lestrade.

The detective sighed and looked up to the ceiling, observing the dull, dead silence of the flat. John had doubtlessly gone to work by this time; he did say his shift began in the morning last night. Last night…Sherlock blinked as the memory of his and his friend's…no, _partner's_ conversation flooded back into his mind, their mutual discoveries and agreement resonating profoundly. That really did happen, then, Sherlock never had reason to doubt his brilliant intellect's memory before and did not see fit to do so now. He and John actually are a couple now. Mindlessly, he lifted his hand to his mouth, lightly ghosting his fingertips across his lips at the memory of the chaste kisses they had shared, how easily they came for both of them and how _right_ it felt. Suddenly Sherlock wanted nothing more than for John to get home, to share their first night together as this something more that their relationship had quickly become. The familiar, pressurized pressing feeling within his chest returned, as achingly there as it was the previous eve. Sherlock glanced downwards, as if he could see through his skin and bone and observe first-hand what exactly his heart was doing to cause this feeling within him, deciding that if this was caused by his newfound feelings towards John that he would need to quickly get used to it. John was not going anywhere, nor did Sherlock wish for him to leave anytime soon. Besides, it was not painful, per se; just rather unusual, especially for a man who was not used to feeling anything at all.

Abruptly, Sherlock sat up, a couple of stray, errant curls falling down into his face as he did so. He knew a painfully sparse amount of information upon relationships. It was imperative that he not be the one to mess this all up, to ruin his and John's friendship because of some stupid, unknown mistake. John was a patient man, but how long would he be able to stand Sherlock's social unawareness? There were so many things that could go wrong because of Sherlock's lack of knowledge on how to be in a proper, romantic relationship with someone. Quickly, he emerged from beneath the covers, running his fingers through his messy bedhead and padding into the living room, where his laptop still laid upon the table from when he used it to look up the train schedule the night before. Now, as he powered it up, Sherlock decided to pass the time waiting for John to get off of work looking up as much information as he could on what being in a romantic relationship with someone consisted of.

John was equally as impatient to come home as Sherlock was to have him home, as to be expected. In the hopes that the detective had not already received another case the very day after wrapping a rather large one up, the doctor had taken the initiative to stop by the store on the way home to pick up some groceries and rent a movie to try to sit down and watch with Sherlock that evening (emphasis on the word 'try'). Picking up dinner had been a consideration as well, but John decided against that in case Sherlock had already been fed by Mrs. Hudson that evening, figuring he could always just order some quick take-out for himself.

"Hey," he greeted the consulting detective upon ascending the stairs with his couple of bags of groceries. Once he had set the plastic bags down upon the clearest corner of the kitchen table that he could find, he glanced over and saw Sherlock hunched over his laptop, curled up in his armchair. "What are you looking at?" John inquired, raising an eyebrow at how closely Sherlock seemed to be reading whatever was on the glowing screen.

Sherlock looked up over his laptop screen at John, idly closing out of three of the five tabs he had open on his internet browser. "Nothing," he said, hopefully not too guiltily. Apparently, his facial expression had been sufficiently suspicious enough, though, for John crossed the room over to where Sherlock sat with his computer. The doctor stood beside him, casually wrapping an arm around his shoulders as he read a bit of what was on the screen.

"Why are you looking this stuff up?" he asked, unable to hide the amused smile now spreading across his face.

"I thought the reason would be obvious," Sherlock replied, his eyes briefly glancing towards the doctor. "I know decidedly little about the subject of relationships; if I am going to be in one, I would like to know as much as I can about what needs to be done to properly keep it up."

"Sherlock," John began, trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of his partner's statement. "A relationship is not a black-and-white kind of thing. Every couple is different—I'll tell you right now, _we're_ different—and you can't just do research to learn how to be in a relationship."

He gently squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, making the detective glance down at the man's hand.

"I'll show you, alright?" John said, looking down at Sherlock reassuringly. "Mostly everything will remain the same between us anyway, we're already so close."

"…Right," Sherlock muttered, recalling John saying something very similar the night before. "I suppose that's true."

"Heh; for once _I'm_ right," John remarked, pulling his arm away from Sherlock as he turned to go put up the groceries. Sherlock smirked, looking over his laptop screen at his partner once more before shutting it down completely.

"Have you eaten yet?" he asked John, setting the computer down upon the chair after rising from the seat himself in a soft rustle of loose pajama bottoms and deep red dressing gown.

"Nope," John replied. "Chinese sound good?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, his growling stomach acquiescing to his agreement. John turned around and met Sherlock with a surprised smile.

"You mean I don't have to fight you to get you to eat something tonight?" he said carefully, to which Sherlock shrugged, his dressing gown sliding a bit down off of his shoulders in the movement.

"I don't have a case," he mused, "May as well join you for dinner."

John smirked as he pulled out the take-out menu and picked up his mobile. "_Charmed._ What do you want, then?"

It was a comfortable evening in for the two of them, taking their food out on trays to the living room so that they could watch the movie John had purchased—"It's the new Bond movie, _Skyfall_. Thought you'd at least enjoy criticizing the special effects," John had said, to which Sherlock leered, recalling their last decidedly unsuccessful Bond marathon. Once again, though, the consulting detective decided to humor his flatmate—friend—partner, for once. The food was delectable enough for Sherlock to eat a good three-quarters of his plate before getting bored with the dinner and setting it aside, sitting back against the couch next to John as he finished eating.

When the doctor too set his tray aside was when Sherlock began to wonder about what couples would do while watching a movie, wondering particularly over how they were meant to sit. At the moment there was about a third of a meter of space in between him and the doctor upon the couch, so Sherlock decided it would be a safe call to close the distance at least part of the way, making the move not only a display of _help me, John; what am I supposed to do?, _and at the same time an invite for John to cross the rest of the distance himself. Sherlock could see his flatmate shoot him a sideways look upon feeling him scooting closer, one eyebrow cocked in questioning. The detective looked at him for a moment before looking towards the television set, immediately glancing back towards John upon feeling the man's warm thigh brush up against his own. That familiar tugging feeling hit him upon making brief contact with John, and perplexedly, Sherlock found himself craving even more closeness. Was that a normal feeling? Surely it was, for after only a brief pause after he slid over, John lifted his arm and once again wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulder's, adjusting slightly so that the detective may have plenty of room to comfortably lean against him.

Immediately, Sherlock relaxed, knowing that this position was right as he sighed and relaxed against John, who chuckled lightly at his reaction. The movie ended; the credits rolled as the last bits of the score played out through the telly's speakers. Neither the doctor nor the detective moved a centimeter to touch the remote, neither of them wishing to part from the other's gentle embrace.

"Sherlock," John spoke his partner's name softly, glancing down at the man in his arms. The detective hummed softly in response, wrapping his long arms around John and tucking his legs up against his thigh. For a moment John had completely lost his train of thought, Sherlock's sweet, intimate touch managing to wipe his brain clean of all eloquence. "Never would've guessed you'd be a cuddler," he finally spoke, the words that came out of his mouth not precisely what he had originally intended to tell the detective but satisfactory nonetheless.

Sherlock blinked open an eye, looking up at John from his place against the man's shoulder. "Never thought you'd be so comfortable," he retorted with a matter-of-fact wrinkle of his nose. John rolled his eyes at the detective, resting his hand upon Sherlock's fluffy curls, idly trailing his fingers through the soft hair and playing with the spring-like strands. Sherlock allowed this, only relaxing further and further against John, burying his face into his shoulder blade and inhaling the man's warm, assuaging scent. Upon nuzzling his nose sensitively against the doctor's shirt, he brushed against what could have only been John's scar. Realization struck suddenly as he slowly lifted his head from John's shoulder; they had lived together for years now and Sherlock had never once laid eye upon the bullet wound he knew about since day one. He briefly wondered if the former army doctor was at all self-conscious about the scar, trailing his fingertips over the man's shirt, where he had felt the raised skin beneath. John allowed him to do so, merely looking down at his fingers and watching them interestedly, which made Sherlock re-think his initial assumptions about the man being conscientious of his malformation. Swiftly, his mind wanted to know everything it could about the scar, wanted to see it, to touch the scar tissue himself, without the fabric of the doctor's shirt blocking it. The detective of course had seen many scars before, many gunshot wounds, old and new, but this was different, because it was _John's_. It was another insight into the man's life, this scar—and even being allowed this near to it, even through the man's shirt, made Sherlock realize just how quickly their relationship was going to progress because of the already firm solidity of their friendship. His heart rate quickened at this, and upon placing his palm over John's heart, he felt the former army doctor's pulsating organ's tempo accelerando with his own.

_Interesting_.

"I remember what I was going to ask now," John spoke up again, resting his hand upon Sherlock's back. "Sherlock, how—well, you told me last night that you've never felt something romantically for someone before, right…?"

Sherlock looked up into John's face. "That's right," he said, narrowing his eyes in mild curiosity as to where the doctor was going with this.

"But have you ever…I don't know, experimented anyway?" John asked, deciding that cutting to the chase rather than beating around the bush for an answer always worked far better with Sherlock.

"You're inquiring as to whether or not I'm actually a virgin," Sherlock clarified.

"Not just that," John admitted, "But more of how much…I don't know, experience you have, if any at all, I mean. 'Cause you know I have none when it comes to intimacies with men; I just felt that some background information would be useful."

"Testing my boundaries?"

"Maybe; more so, I want to make sure that I won't be pushing you to move too quickly in anything."

"Ah," Sherlock finally nodded in understanding, realizing John's triflingly uncharacteristic insecurities were not over himself, but rather, more so, over Sherlock…rightfully so, as well. "I don't have very much experience at all, John," he admitted reluctantly, hating the fact that he was being asked about the one subject he had never bothered experimenting upon. "It always seemed like a hassle—like an unnecessary distraction, sex. So, no; I've never experimented upon the subject."

"Have you ever been kissed before? Before last night, I mean," John clarified.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, looking John in the eye. "You witnessed it, after all."

_What_?

"What?" John asked, sufficiently confused now. Sherlock apparently was equally as perplexed by John's reaction too, however, and spoke slowly:

"You saw Irene Adler kiss me. That day, when she snuck into the flat and asked me to explain the airline code upon her camera phone, remember?"

_Ah._

"Sherlock," John said, closing his eyes and shaking his head slightly. "That doesn't count, that was on the cheek."

"It was a kiss, was it not?"

"Yes," John agreed, "But not a fully…_intimate_ one, I mean. Come on, Mrs. Hudson kisses us on the cheek, surely you understand the difference here."

"I do. You simply should have clarified what exactly you meant by 'a kiss.'"

"Sherlock…"

The detective sighed heavily, resting his head against John's chest. "Before last night, no; I'd never been kissed before."

John could not help but stare at him; of course, given the context clues verbally presented to him during the early part of their conversation, he knew this answer was coming. Still, he was struck with a moment of disbelief over the fact that this grown man had just barely received his first real kiss the night before…by _him_.

"I'm your first kiss," he could not help but whisper, despite the pure childishness of the statement. Sure enough, Sherlock looked up into his face and raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," the skeptical man said slowly. "What of it…?"

"Nothing, that's just…" John began, then shook his head, resuming in his playing with Sherlock's hair. "It's kind of nice, I suppose."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"Sentiment."

"There you go," John stated, laughing once in disbelief at how slow the most brilliant man he ever knew could sometimes be. "Now you're catching on…"

He looked down at Sherlock, gently pulling him closer against his side as he tilted his head forward and kissed him lightly upon the top of his curls. "We'll take this slow, like we ought to do anyway," he informed the detective reassuringly, though Sherlock did not feel the slightest bit of nervousness towards doing anything physical with John. If there was anyone he was willing to open up to in that way it was his blogger, and he knew it.

"We ought to," Sherlock repeated, asking for clarification, to which John nodded and explained:

"A lot of relationships get really messed-up when mutual trust is not there before having sex, or engaging in sexual activities, even."

"Why?"

"I don't really know," John answered honestly. "I suppose the relationship just begins to lack all of the necessary emotions, and after a while it just becomes about the sex. Like an extended one-night stand."

"And you don't want that to happen to us."

"No, definitely not," John murmured against Sherlock's hair. The blatant fact of the extent of John's care about their early relationship made Sherlock pause for a moment. He was elated that John was already considering their togetherness to become a long-term kind of deal, as he had highly considered himself while thinking over whether or not he wanted this with John, well before their decision was made. Now he truly knew that they really were on the same page here, and he felt genuinely excited for the way their future looked.

"Neither do I," he finally spoke in a low voice as he leant against John, taking comfort in the doctor's embrace.

Sherlock blinked in surprise when he felt the hand that was gently entangled within his hair slide lightly down his face and cup his chin within its soft grasp. Allowing his face to be lifted up from its restful spot upon John's warm chest, the befuddled man looked down into his partner's eyes, reading his knowing intent from his dark pupils, dilated in the dim glow of the television. He could feel John's heated heart beat through his fingertips and pressed his lips together desirably, impatiently pressing forward against the doctor's grasp. With a low chuckle, John willingly released Sherlock's chin and instead placed his hand at the back of his neck, all too eager to press his lips up against Sherlock's once again. He allowed his lips to linger quite a bit longer upon Sherlock's this time, only parting after planting a much shorter, second kiss upon the delightful Cupid's bow curvature of the consulting detective's mouth.

"I haven't even _properly_ kissed you yet," he whispered against Sherlock's cheek, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck as he spoke. Before Sherlock could inquire as to what he meant, though, he kissed him briefly again, looking into his eyes with a smile laced with endearing mischief. "Follow my lead," he instructed the detective quickly, closing his eyes and brushing his relaxed lips gently across his flatmate's before re-connecting their mouths.

Slowly, gently, John began to move his lips against Sherlock's, deepening the kiss considerably compared to his previous actions. Sherlock blinked in surprise but faltered and closed his eyes once he felt the strange euphoria erupt from somewhere deep inside him, telling him that yes, this was an act to take great pleasure in, especially with John. To his credit, though, the leading man was being extremely attentive to his partner's every move, paying mind to his body language and beginning learn what he likes. When the doctor parted his lips a fraction, Sherlock followed, humming a soft sound of surprise when John began to lap lightly at his mouth with his tongue, delving in further past his lips and moving it tenderly in a somehow tantalizing, circular pattern within his mouth. Their tongues touched within the cover of their connected lips, and the detective could not help but shiver slightly at the incredibly close contact, intriguingly lifting a palm to John's face while he tasted the doctor. After a few seconds of uncertainty and a few more curious licks at one another's lips, the two of them finally fell into a similar rhythm, pressing closer up against one another. Admittedly, Sherlock was silently grateful that John did not seem to be a particularly sloppy kisser, for that was yet another reason he had been content to avoid ever experimenting with this sort of thing before. However, this thing of pure ecstasy that he was experiencing through their much more drawn-out kiss was something that sufficiently began to claw at the mental blocks of Sherlock's desire, making him both more curious and more amorous as to what else John had to give, and as to what he could possibly learn to give to him as well.

With a tiny tug of Sherlock's plump bottom lip and a one last light, concluding peck, John unhurriedly pulled away from their kiss, breathlessly resting his forehead against Sherlock's and opening his dark eyes up to meet his partner's stunningly effulgent pair.

"How was that?" Sherlock could not help but ask between light pants, wanting to know if he contained any ounce of natural skill in the department of pleasuring his partner. According to the enlightened smile that immediately spread across the doctor's face, he had done something right.

"Brilliant," John breathed, cupping a bit shakily at the back of the man's neck. _I-I just made-out with Sherlock Holmes…_ his mind stuttered, infringing in outright disbelief towards his actions. _I just kissed my __male__ flatmate, a-and it was fantastic, —_ "Bloody brilliant—you learn fast, you do."

Sherlock's calculating gaze softened significantly at the praise; though he was expecting it—it _was_ John, after all—it still gave him a ridiculous warm, fuzzy feeling inside. This was not even about his mind entirely, though, which both puzzled and awed him in tandem. In fact, there was such a cornucopia of differentiating things occurring within Sherlock at that moment as there was during the kiss he had shared with John that he wanted nothing more than to repeat the action, to further explore this new strangely delightful and physical side of their relationship. After all, though Sherlock knew this was to be part of their relationship, he had not the faintest idea that it was going to be so…well, _addictive_.

John could tell that the man's genius mind was hard at work; he smiled as he brushed his nose against Sherlock's, closing his eyes.

"What are you thinking about?" he mumbled, slitting one eye open to look at Sherlock.

"...I don't want to get up," Sherlock confessed, content to stay snuggled against John for the rest of the evening. John let out a low chuckle at the confession, loving how he was able to pull forth from deep within his soul this forthrightly human side of Sherlock.

"Neither do I," he admitted honestly, and then before he could stop himself he turned his head to kiss Sherlock deeply again, lapping briefly at the inside of his mouth before taking his enormously delectable bottom lip into his mouth again, suckling on it and managing to pull forth a surprisingly docile little moan from the back of Sherlock's throat. With one last caress John relinquished his hold on Sherlock's lip, habitually planting a parting peck upon his mouth before opening his eyes again. Sherlock wrenched his open only a second after John, looking at him intently before whispering:

"Would you sleep with me tonight?"

John gaped at him in surprise; so much for taking things slowly. Before he could open his mouth to explain why he did not think the proposition was necessarily a good idea and that he did not know whether or not he was quite ready for that yet, however, Sherlock clarified:

"Just sleep."

The detective sighed, resting his face against John's shoulder. "I'm really enjoying this, after all," he mumbled, uncaring of whether or not it was too faint for John to hear since he was intending upon admitting that only to himself. Of course, due to the proximity of his face to John's ear the doctor could make out what he said and smiled. _That_ he could do.

"Sure," he agreed quietly, making Sherlock abruptly lift his head from John's shoulder in a mixture of mild surprise and gladness. "Let me just run upstairs and change real quick."

"Meet me in the bedroom," Sherlock informed him, reluctantly letting go to allow John to change into his nightclothes. He could not help but watch him trudge up the stairs towards his bedroom, unknowingly smiling a bit to himself before finally rising from the couch, turning off the telly and stretching his arms out before turning to go into his own room to change for bed as well. It was only until after he had entered that room that he realized he had never bothered to change out of his pajama bottoms and loose-fitting grey t-shirt that he wore to sleep whenever he elected not to sleep in the nude. When Sherlock turned around after pulling his crimson dressing gown off of his shoulders, John was already there, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest as he looked over at his partner. The detective took in his welcome appearance, observing how comfortable the man already looked, now dressed in a pair of light, grey sweatpants that perplexedly hung appealingly low upon his waist, and a thin, white t-shirt covering his torso.

"What side do you usually sleep on?" John inquired, breaking eye contact with Sherlock only to nod briefly towards the suddenly rather inviting bed.

"Either," he replied nonchalantly, to which John cocked his head to the side curiously, watching the man discard his dressing gown over the edge of the footboard of his bedstead.

"You sure?" the doctor asked to make sure, even though he distinctly recalled that the detective slept in the middle of the bed—at least, according to the one or two times he had to help him get into it after particularly rough cases—which, he suspected, probably meant he was going to awaken in the morning to a consulting detective on top of him. Not that he minded that image too much, even this early in their relationship...

"...Get into bed, John," Sherlock said, humorously regarding his partner as he lifted his hands in a silent gesture meant to mean _fine_ and made to crawl under the covers at the side closest to the door. With a silent nod to himself Sherlock followed suit, lying next to John and pondering whether or not cuddling in bed together at this point in their relationship would constitute as 'moving too fast.'

"Sorry ahead of time," John piped up suddenly, holding his mobile up, "But I've got the early shift tomorrow and I'll need to set an alarm."

"Fine," Sherlock muttered in dismissal, not really caring since he did not wish to sleep in again as he had that day, especially with the prospect of a new case hopefully turning up with the sunrise. Immediately after turning the light on his nightstand off, he felt John move closer to him, wrapping his arms around the detective's waist and burying his face against the back of his neck. Sherlock inhaled quietly in pleasure, loving the feeling of John's warm body pressed close to him, his easily cuddle-able figure pulling in Sherlock like the soft hug of a teddy bear. Already he was addicted to the cradle of John's arms around him, and he turned carefully within the embrace to lie upon his side, allowing John to pull him a bit closer and nuzzle his face against his much more comfortable chest rather than his bony spine. Apparently that was the correct move on his part, too, for he could feel John's content smile against his shirt, could feel him already beginning to drift off to sleep.

"You're probably exhausted after I kept you up all night to harass you," Sherlock commented, mindlessly threading his fingers through his flatmate's soft hair. Upon realizing he was doing so, he paused only a moment before thinking that the motion was probably more soothing than annoying to John and continued on as he was.

"Harass; heh," John mumbled against Sherlock, resting his head just over the man's steady heartbeat..._thump-thump...thump-thump...thump-thump..._

"Convince, maybe," John reasoned softly, "But I wouldn't describe it as harassing. With the mood I was in last night I wouldn't have stayed for anything of that sort."

"The nightmare," Sherlock whispered, remembering with a slight frown the whole reason John had gone downstairs at that ungodly hour in the first place. With a sigh, he rested his hand upon the back of John's head and said in a low, soft voice: "Hopefully you won't have another one."

John's following smile was unexpected, but the light-hearted words that trailed behind his expression were inspiriting for Sherlock to hear:

"For some reason I don't think that'll be a problem at all tonight."

When Sherlock tilted his head downwards to look at John he met the man's deep blue eyes in response. Before his brilliant mind could even attempt to cook up a comeback towards the doctor's words his lips were pressed up against the detective's. Once again, Sherlock bewilderedly found himself practically melting beneath John despite his outward harshness and opened his eyes only upon feeling the man rest his head over his heart once again, only after hearing him faintly whisper:

"'Night, Sherlock."

It was as if John's words flipped the off switch within Sherlock, for despite the long amount of time he had spent sleeping that day in the reminiscence of a completed case, he was for some reason that his mind currently could not fathom completely content upon falling asleep with John, cuddling up against his best friend's—his partner's vastly cozy form. With one last hesitantly light kiss upon the top of his head, Sherlock nuzzled against John's short hair, deeply breathing in his pleasant scent before softly, nearly completely inaudibly, wishing John a goodnight.

-•-• •-•-

[Stardate 2258: space coordinates ]

"…Never the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light…he is unbeatable," Khan spoke softly, very nearly out of Carol's earshot, but just at the minimum volume required for her to hear his sentiment. Neither of them said anything for a long moment, allowing the augment's final words of description about John to permeate the room as they worked, to linger on for as long as he wanted—_needed _them to. Carol could now clearly tell this man had been Khan's rock, his best friend, if not even more than that. Though he did not outright admit to anything more than friendship, she could not help but wonder.

Khan had done this on purpose; his relationship with John was never a hugely known fact, anyway, not even back in London when they were still living together at 221B Baker Street. They never purposely meant to keep it a deep, dark secret or anything else of the sort, but they simply did not parade it around. Public displays of affection were not really his thing, nor John's much for that matter, so it was not until they had been together for a good half of a year that Lestrade and their other 'friends' on the force found out about their change in relationship statuses. Not even their landlady had found out until they had been romantically involved for nearly a full month. Just the mere thought of the ever-caring Mrs. Hudson made Khan's heart throb in sorrow and regret, though; now, everything was completely different. Even though John was not here to protest—not that he would have even if he was—, Khan felt like Carol did not deserve to know of their irrevocable love. The world was their enemy, their existence squandered and spat upon like they were dust, though without the useful eloquence of fingerprinting since they had apparently been wiped clean from all Starfleet archives. Why else did Carol Marcus know nothing about the human augments, the voracious experiments performed to improve the race through selective altering, breeding and genetic engineering?

"You keep referring to John in the present-tense," Carol mentioned, her voice breaking the high-strung silence of the warehouse as she concentrated upon re-fitting the inner casing shield within torpedo number sixty-seven. "Why is that?"

"Because he is still alive," Khan stated simply, his face betraying none of the emotions he felt over the matter whatsoever. If there was anything his past, human form excelled at, it was stoicism.

"Is he also an augment, then?" Carol inquired. She assumed that was the most logical reason for his incredibly old age, lifting her head up from the torpedo she was working on to look back at Khan and puffing a loose strand of hair out of her face.

"Yes."

Something automatically clicked in Carol's mind. At last, the true reason for Khan's unfailing hatred became crystal clear and painfully obvious.

"Oh my god…" she whispered, making Khan turn around to face her, a single eyebrow cocked condescendingly in inquiry. "They took you away from him."

"They took _both_ of us away," Khan clarified, "From _each other_."

The words would have been much more painful if Carol knew of their romantic affiliations as well, but Khan let that pass, unable to admit that he would have much rather died than to have been taken from his love.

"How?"

"That's…none of your concern," Khan said through teeth gritted tightly together to keep from lashing out mindlessly at the throbbing in his chest. He gripped at the table before him, bending the metal through the sheer, blunt force of emotional pain.

But Carol was going to be persistent about this particular piece of information.

"Please tell me," she insisted. "It's bad enough that Starfleet has kept the human augment's existence out of the records, hidden away from the Academy and most of the Federation outside of District 21. I have the right to know what they did to you two—what they did to hundreds of thousands of innocent human beings around the world."

"You have the right to know?" Khan sneered. "What gives you the right, an inferior—a _human_—to know of that?"

"Because you were human once, too," Carol retorted, standing her ground before the angered augment despise the knowledge that he could very well break her skull clean off of her spine with a single blow to the chin. "Based upon what you've just told me as well, I would wager a guess that you'd give anything to be human once more."

"How _dare_ you—"

"It's easy to read once you know the facts," Carol said simply, making the man pause. "You were already a genius. You had the intellect as your past, '_inferior'_ self. The only difference is that as a human, the world accepted you much easier."

Carol sighed and took another step towards Khan, crossing the distance between the two of them so that they were nearly touching. She could feel his hot breath upon her forehead and tilted her head up to look him in the eye, sensing his broiling uncertainty clearly and easily from this meager distance.

"…Tell me about the day you and John were taken away."

"I have not told anyone of that ever before," Khan growled, looking away from her. After saying so, though, he could not help but sigh despite the weakness the annoyedly human action betrayed of him. He had already told Carol Marcus so much; certainly this, a story of mere facts and figures—or, at least, one that could be altered to fit as such—would be much easier than any of the stories that he had already told would be to explain.

-•-• •-•-


End file.
